


Upon a Knife’s Point

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Also an excuse to showcase some general Patron-Minette friendship dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Fauntleroy, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Everyone is early to mid-twenties, Except for Babet who is mid-thirties, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Mutual Pining, No Sex, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, POV Alternating, Rated M for vilence, Slow Burn, Trans Montparnasse, nonbinary fauntleroy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-07-18 08:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Fauntleroy is still new to the Patron-Minette and they're determined to prove themself.Claquesous however has been at this game for years and hereallywasn't expecting to still be caught by surprise.[Prewritten, updates twice a week.]





	1. Blades

**Author's Note:**

> This is my own story in a new, separate universe from my usual Patron-Minette modern AU, but I owe a significant deal of my inspiration to the Patron-Minette suggestion blogs on Tumblr. So a big shout-out to all of them (seriously, check them out, they all follow the characternamesuggestions.tumblr.com format).  
> My admiration to the Faun mod especially of course and a particular thank you to the Claquesous mod, I am both grateful and sworn to secrecy~
> 
>  **Warning:** This is very fluffy, but it’s also pretty violent. There are detailed content warnings in the notes of each chapter, but if you can’t stand violence against secondary characters this isn’t a safe read and in case you’ve read my other stuff: I tend to water the Patron-Minette down quite a bit, to make them less criminal. In this case…not so much. There’s very little angst, but there sure is a fair bit of violence and cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: alcohol, knives (but no violence or injury. Still, don’t play with knives. The Patron-Minette are terrible role models).

“Shut _up_ , Gueulemer, stop distracting me.”

“What, getting nervous you’ll lose your bet?”

Claquesous watches with a mix of professional admiration and personal amusement how Fauntleroy poses to throw their knife. Fauntleroy hasn’t been living in this apartment for that long and they have clearly not grown very attached to the unblemished woodwork just yet. Considering Brujon’s been the one pointing out the targets up to this point, he obviously isn’t particularly protective of his living space either. Bizarro isn’t home, but she is the one who originally brought Fauntleroy in, so presumably she knew what she was signing up for.

Not that Claquesous had expected this evening to include knife tricks. On the whole it’s been much more entertaining than he had been counting on. He’s rather pleased he decided to come after all.

There is movement beside him and a glass of wine appears in his peripheral vision. He takes it with a nod of thanks to Babet, who sits down next to him.

Fauntleroy’s blade lands dead centre in the target Gueulemer chose for them with a satisfying thump. They whirl around in silent triumph and Gueulemer hollers at them with frustrated admiration.

“Pay up,” they demand, holding out their hand with a grin that suits the look in their eyes much better than their deceptively innocent appearance.

“Clever little thing, aren’t they,” Babet hums, sipping on his own wine.

“Very,” Claquesous agrees. Fauntleroy’s techniques are clearly self-taught, but very impressive. Crowded in between Gueulemer and Brujon they look like a small, brightly coloured creature. The knives in their hands would be their claws…

“Parnasse still coming?” Babet asks.

Claquesous’ mouth pulls and since he’s only wearing a half-mask today, Babet sees it immediately.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he snorts.

“Hm,” Claquesous hums, raising his glass to his lips, his eyes still on the blade Fauntleroy is spinning around their hand.

“Is it the redhead again?”

Claquesous can’t be sure, but he thinks it exceedingly likely. Montparnasse has never been this interested in anyone for longer than a week. It’s fascinating. And, judging from some of Montparnasse’s late-night venting, it’s also rather distressing. Which, of course, makes it a matter of confidence.

“Who the fuck knows,” he sighs with tolerably believable indifference.

Babet laughs sportingly and leaves it at that.

There’s a burst of argumentative noise from the others and Claquesous and Babet both shift their attention towards them again.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re backing out,” Gueulemer taunts.

“You said you’d be able to catch anything as long as it was only one blade at the time,” Brujon reminds them with an obnoxious grin.

“And I can,” Fauntleroy says indignantly. “But if you think I’m going to let either of you throw anything at me you’re out of your thick heads.”

“You’re backing out,” Gueulemer crows and Fauntleroy glares at him with an impressive amount of venom in their eyes.

Claquesous slants his head in thought. He’s seen Fauntleroy do some pretty impressive tricks over the past few weeks. They’ve been cautiously showing off more and more of their surprisingly wide variety of talents lately. But he’s never seen them do any catching.

“Go on,” Babet chuckles beside him. “You know you want to.”

Claquesous glances at him and smirks slightly. “Do you want to see if Fauntleroy is as good as their word or do you want to see Mer and Brujon put in their place?”

“Either will do,” Babet grins.

Claquesous gives Fauntleroy an appraising glance and gets to his feet. He’d wager it will be the latter.

“I’ll throw,” he speaks up and the others look round in surprise.

He raises his nearly untouched glass of wine for Fauntleroy to see before he puts it aside. “If you trust me more than those two.”

The surprise on Fauntleroy’s face has given way to determination. “With blades?” they sniff. “Obviously.”

“So you’ll do it?” Gueulemer gapes.

“If Claquesous is the one throwing,” Fauntleroy says firmly. “Yes.”

“Yours or mine then?” Claquesous smirks.

“You’re carrying your throwing knives?” Brujon says with a frown. “Now?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Claquesous sniffs and Fauntleroy says:

“Yours. The better the throw, the easier to catch.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to make this easy for you,” Claquesous says, smirking ever so slightly. He’s more than willing to give Fauntleroy an opportunity to show off, but that means he actually wants to see how good they are. No one in the Patron-Minette handles knives like he does, not even Montparnasse. He’d welcome a little competition. Even if that competition looks like they’ve escaped from the spring edition of one of Montparnasse’s silly fashion magazines.

Fauntleroy doesn’t smile, but their eyes glint just a little brighter for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

Claquesous grins and reaches for the first of his knives.

“Shit,” Brujon laughs nervously when the first glint of steel flashes through the air and he and Gueulemer both back away.

“How many?” Fauntleroy asks, their delicate features set off sharply with concentration.

“Five,” Claquesous says, tossing the first one casually up into the air and catching it again. They’re a lot bigger than Fauntleroy’s. That will make the catching easier as well. If they’re not too heavy for them…

“Let me see their spin first,” Fauntleroy says, watching the blade in his hand carefully.

“Make way, here come the extra conditions,” Brujon jeers.

Fauntleroy’s eyes dart into his direction. “Oh did _you_ want to give it a try,” they bite and Brujon laughingly raises his hands in submission.

Gueulemer snorts and he sits down heavily on the arm rest of the couch Babet still occupies, making it creak dangerously.

“Point me towards something to throw at, Brujon,” Claquesous says. “Or it will be your door.”

“Throw at the damn door, what the fuck do I care,” Brujon says excitedly.

 “Door it is then,” Claquesous smirks. He adjusts his position, glancing quickly at Fauntleroy just before he takes aim. They’re not looking at him. They’re looking where his knives will be.

Even if his friends hadn’t decided to shut up for a moment, Claquesous wouldn’t have heard them. Blades move best in silence and for a moment there’s nothing but one knife in his hand, four more hidden upon his person, and the door with that godawful paintjob Bizarro did when they moved in.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five identical knives form a nearly perfectly straight line across the door. The third one’s a bit off. Claquesous spares it a single resentful glance. There always has to be _something_.

“Show off,” Gueulemer rumbles amusedly and Claquesous flashes him a grin.

“What, don’t you appreciate my symmetry?” He pulls the knives out of the wood and gathers them all in his left hand.

Fauntleroy’s concentration hasn’t wavered. When he looks at them they merely nod.

Claquesous clicks with his tongue and goes back to his original position. He waits, first knife in hand, for Fauntleroy to adjust their stance.

“Try not to get cut up too badly,” Babet says languidly. “Brujon never remembers to restock the med kits.”

“I don’t get cut,” Fauntleroy replies evenly, but they never moves their eyes away from Claquesous’ hand.

Claquesous takes aim in exactly the same manner he did before and Fauntleroy holds out their hand, directly under the path of the knife.

“Fucking hell,” Brujon mutters, but the other two are perfectly silent for a change.

Fauntleroy looks ready. Well, they had better be.

Claquesous throws.

As fast as the knife flicks past, Fauntleroy’s hand darts up. They catch it with the handle pointing upwards, index finger and thumb trapping the very edge of the handle firmly in place, but the blade just touching against their palm.

Gueulemer sucks in his breath and Claquesous agrees. A _little_ sloppy.

He doesn’t wait, but throws the second one as soon as Fauntleroy has moved the knife from their right to their left and has resumed their stance. As soon as he lets go he can tell they’re not going to make this catch.

So does Fauntleroy. They instantly drop their hand to their side and the knife buries itself into the door with a twanging thud.

“ _Weak_ ,” Brujon crows.

“Shut it,” Babet orders sharply from the couch.

The moment they had to break off their attempt Claquesous saw a clear flicker of anger in Fauntleroy’s eyes, but now their expression is blank and attentive again. “Go on,” they say evenly.

He throws.

Fauntleroy’s hand shoots up, wraps around the handle, and stops it in mid-air.

Claquesous feels a grin flash on his face, paired with the flash of triumph on Fauntleroy’s. That was a perfect catch.

Gueulemer whistles admiringly between his teeth and Fauntleroy tosses the knife to their other hand, catching it against the other. Claquesous looks at them intently and carefully takes aim again, this time pointing much closer towards them.

“Sous…” Gueulemer begins warily.

“Ta gueule,” Claquesous hisses. There is an ambitious glint in Fauntleroy’s eyes and he wants to see it flare up.

He waits a few beats, until Fauntleroy gives a minute nod with their head, and then throws almost directly at them.

Fauntleroy moves to the side with a single dancing step and grabs onto the blade’s handle as it spins past them.

Gueulemer and Brujon burst out in a wordless racket of praise and Fauntleroy daintily steps back to their former position, grinning while Babet chuckles in the background.

Claquesous keeps his face in check. Beautiful as that was, he has one blade left and Fauntleroy is looking a little too pleased. Pleased is awfully close to complacent.

He aims higher on this throw, way higher than Fauntleroy has any right to expect, well over their head. It’s kind of a dick move and Claquesous doesn’t really expect Fauntleroy to catch it. But he wants them to.

Fauntleroy’s arm lashes out, unfurling elegantly above their right shoulder in a flurry of colour as their sleeve flutters. There isn’t a single stutter or stall in their movement and with their fingers wrapping firmly around the handle they pluck the knife right out of the air.

 _That_ was just bloody stunning. No two ways about.

“Four out of five,” Brujon cheers. “And with fucking _showmanship_.”

“Well shit,,” Gueulemer grins, nudging Babet hard in the shoulder. “You are _wasted_ on intel, that’s for damn sure.”

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we,” Babet hums and Claquesous takes the opportunity to give him a rather satisfied look. He was right about Fauntleroy being as good as their word.

He throws them an approving glance and Fauntleroy brings their grin down to a determined little smile. That last catch might very well have hurt their wrist, but their face shows nothing but simmering triumph. Silently they turn towards the door, pulling the one knife they missed out of the wood.

“Fine blades,” they say composedly, offering all five of them back to him.

Claquesous hums and takes them from their outstretched hand, making them disappear one by one, faintly amused by how closely Fauntleroy is watching him do it.

“While you’re both showing off,” Babet suddenly speaks up. “I wouldn’t be much of a pack elder if I didn’t try to pit you against each other.”

Gueulemer turns around with a freshly opened bottle of wine in his hands and Brujon makes a delighted noise from behind the cupboard door he just opened in search of more glasses.

Claquesous smirks. Competition is all well and good, but there’s no way he’s losing this. He looks down, and Fauntleroy meets his gaze with wide eyes, pink cheeks, and an absolutely ruthless expression.

“Name your challenges,” Claquesous orders.

Brujon hollers and Babet lets out an approving sound. “Well, that will have to be considered very carefully, won’t it,” he grins.

“Man,” Gueulemer chuckles, generously overfilling three glasses before he joins him on the couch. “Parnasse is going to be _pissed_ he missed this.”

Claquesous folds his hands on his back patiently, smirking slightly at the single fidgeting step Fauntleroy takes before they do the same, except with their hands clasped elegantly in front of the clearly handmade buckle of their belt.

He hates an easy win. This won’t be an easy win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't take it anymore, it's backstory time for this tiny ship. If you are not yet fully on board, please, allow me to convince you <3


	2. Triangles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: anxiety (hint of claustrophobia?), violence, knives.

It’s not that gathering information and doing simple break-ins is boring. Fauntleroy doesn’t think they have had a single truly boring moment since Bizarro convinced them to move in with her and to let her introduce them to her friends. It’s just that they know they’re capable of more. They want to prove they can do more. That’s what they’ve been working at so hard to accomplish the past months.

_This_ is not helping.

Normally Fauntleroy has no problem with being patient. True, they’re not overly fond of sitting still, but they can lie in wait just fine. Just like they really don’t mind enclosed spaces either. They’re forever squeezing through narrow passages and climbing through small openings. But this is different. The two of them came _so_ close to getting caught and now they’re hiding and Fauntleroy _knows_ they’re not allowed to move and they _hate_ this.

Beside them Claquesous seems completely calm. Fauntleroy can just about see him in the dark. He’s leaning back against the wall instead of sitting hunched over like them. Faun is hugging their knees to stop their feet from fidgeting, but they want to get out so badly. There’s people walking outside. They don’t want to be found. They don’t want to be _trapped_.

“Faun.” Claquesous’ voice is barely more than a breath, but it still calls Faun to attention. They bite down on their lip. If Claquesous wasn’t wearing a mask he’d probably be frowning at them. They try to exhale slowly.

“…sorry,” they breathe.

Claquesous is still looking at them and they can’t even see his eyes in this dim light, but he can’t be too happy with them. Fauntleroy bites down on the slight shame in their insides and mixes it with resentment. This is one of the biggest jobs they’ve been taken along on so far. They want more of this. More than being clever and quiet in the background. They need to be taken seriously and acting out like this now is going to look terribly unreliable. If they could only get the hell _out_ of—

Claquesous’ left hand moves, slowly, and he places it on their hunched shoulder. Fauntleroy freezes in place. He’s only touching them very lightly, but Fauntleroy can’t remember Claquesous _ever_ touching them. They really can’t. He doesn’t even shake hands or kiss cheeks for greetings.

“Squares or triangles,” Claquesous breathes behind his mask and he very carefully moves his hand until it rests between their shoulder blades.

“What?” Fauntleroy whispers in confusion, swallowing half the word for fear of being too loud.

“Squares…or…triangles…” Claquesous hums quietly, and to Fauntleroy’s astonishment he begins drawing on their back with a gloved finger.

It’s a pleasant feeling, but very odd. Especially now, especially from Claquesous of all—

Fauntleroy blinks in the dark. Claquesous is drawing shapes. Squares and triangles… Are they supposed to tell them apart? Fauntleroy focuses on the movements. The difference is subtle, it takes attention to feel the change in direction. Triangle, triangle, square, triangle…

The quiet concentration evens out their breathing and the gentle touches draw some of the tension out of their shoulders. After a while they can even focus on the sounds outside again. Alert to any change in movement, with only a distant part of their mind focused on the patterns on their back.

There is a shout outside.

Fauntleroy has their hand on their knife before they even realise Claquesous’ hand has left their back. The second shout they hear is unmistakably Gueulemer.

Claquesous moves and Fauntleroy follows scarcely a heartbeat later.

…

They all manage to get out unharmed. Mostly anyway. No harm to speak of. Nothing that needs patching up, as Babet says.

Fauntleroy keeps rather quiet while Claquesous, Montparnasse and Gueulemer curse and bitch at each other to let off some steam. They don’t even answer Gueulemer’s compliment about them being “as fast as they are small and fucking _vicious_.” They just smile and let him shove them around in his friendly way of rough affection.

Babet drags them all through a short debriefing and then sends them home.

Fauntleroy wasn’t going to say anything. They had made up their mind not to, but apparently Montparnasse is dawdling, because they find Claquesous waiting for him outside, looking at the brightening sky.

He looks round when Fauntleroy approaches him and now they can clearly see his dark eyes behind the sockets of his mask.

Fauntleroy hesitates. “Thanks,” they say quietly.

He gives them a brief nod.

They could leave it at that, but the question has left their lips before they can stop it. “Who did you used to do that for?”

Because this was a routine. A method long since refined. Using it might have been spur of the moment, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.

Claquesous is silent for a moment longer. “No one,” he says and at the same time that Fauntleroy is certain he’s telling the truth, they realise that this must mean someone used to do this for _him_.

He looks away, eyes back on the sky, and Fauntleroy shuts their mouth. Claquesous is difficult to talk to. But…in an odd way, very easy to like.

“You have to teach me that thing you do with your butterfly knife,” they say, tilting their head back to look at the sky as well. They like the pink clouds of dawn.

Claquesous doesn’t move, but he sounds amused when he answers: “Not a very good teacher.”

“No matter,” Fauntleroy says lightly. “I’m a _very_ good student.”

Claquesous blows out an amused breath and Fauntleroy grins.

“You two look absolutely ridiculous together,” Montparnasse’s scathing voice breaks through the momentary silence. He has changed his clothes, once again a picture of elegance, that Fauntleroy appreciates as well as wonders at.

“We can’t all manages such things on our own,” Claquesous says smoothly and Montparnasse snarls slightly. He’s in a good mood though. They all are.

“Allors,” he says. “On y va?”

Claquesous nods.

“You want a lift?” Montparnasse asks generously, a true testament to his good humour.

Fauntleroy shakes their head all the same. “Thanks, but I like the walk.” They like walking away the events of a job before being back home again.

“Alright then,” Montparnasse shrugs. “See you.”

Claquesous gives them what Fauntleroy thinks is a pleased parting look and follows Montparnasse, leaving Fauntleroy to head home with a smile on their face.

As they walk Fauntleroy makes sure they keep their thoughts on what they see before them. The town’s early morning bustle, the sun greeting the flowers in the window-boxes. It’s no good thinking too much about the things that happen at work. Still, they’re bound to think a _little_. And they do wonder…

“Morning, darling,” Bizarro greets them with a yawn when Fauntleroy walks into the living room.

Bizarro is sitting at the table with some very strong coffee and her long hair still in its nightly up-do.

“Morning, Biz,” Fauntleroy smiles, dropping a kiss on her cheek on their way to their room.

Bizarro hums affectionately and turns on her chair to follow them. “It all went well then?”

Fauntleroy glances back at her. “Sure.”

They know Bizarro worries about them. She’s not too happy they do full contact stuff now.

Bizarro’s eyes scan up and down their face, narrowing slightly, and Fauntleroy blows out a sighing breath. Bizarro is as intuitive as she is superstitious.

“Bit of trouble halfway through,” they admit. “But it’s all good now.”

“Well,” she sighs. “All’s well that ends well, right?” She smiles. “Look at you, hunting with the pack.”

Fauntleroy smiles back. Their mind wanders and for a moment they hesitate. “Biz, can I ask you something about Claquesous?”

Bizarro’s face immediately softens with reassuring affection. “Don’t worry about Sous, honey,” she says. “Him being silent and distant doesn’t mean that he doesn’t accept you, it’s just how he is. I think it took a year before he started abbreviating my name. He’s a pretty reliable guy, just terribly stand-offish is all.”

“Oh,” Fauntleroy says, smiling uncertainly. They remember the soft touches on their back. “I thought he was kind of sweet, actually.”

Bizarro blinks at them. “ _Sweet_ ,” she echoes and Fauntleroy laughs a little, a tad sheepish.

They had wanted to ask Bizarro if she knows anything about Claquesous’ background, but going on what she just said, probably not.

“Honey,” Bizarro says finally. “I’d argue with you about the definition of the word ‘sweet’, but considering you still smell like gunpowder I’d rather not.”

Fauntleroy laughs. “I _was_ on my way to change my clothes,” they smile.

“You go do that,” Bizarro says. “Let me finish my coffee.” She turns back to her cup. “But Faun—” she says and Fauntleroy ruts back once more in the doorway of their room.

Bizarro smiles. “I’m glad the guys are finally treating you right.”

Fauntleroy flashes her as smile back before ducking into their room. They’re not there yet, not quite, but they’re glad too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, you're so kind to join me in my indulgence <3


	3. Plans

Babet being the oldest, does not make him the leader. What makes him the leader is that he knows this city, it’s people and their vices like absolutely no one else does.

He also knowns better than to rely fully on his own planning, however. Claquesous and Montparnasse have been involved with that ever since they joined him. Technically everyone has a say, but in practice it’s the three of them doing the strategizing.

To give some semblance of full equality they do their planning with the others present, but it’s kind of an empty gesture. At the moment Babet and Montparnasse are poring over a floor plan that is so badly drawn it still ticks Claquesous off, while Fauntleroy and Bizarro are having a drink on the other end of the table and Gueulemer, Brujon and Glorieux are making obnoxious amounts of across the room.

“Sous,” Babet says irritably, and Claquesous glances up at him. He is not paying attention because they have been over this already, several times, he is done with it.

“What are you _fussing_ about,” he snaps. “Why are we still going over this?”

“Because we’re a man short,” Babet says snidely. “We still need someone on the inside.”

“Not necessary,” Claquesous contradicts with a curt shake of the head.

“Only if no one fucks up,” Montparnasse says, sneering slightly as he glances towards the loud laughter coming from the far corner.

Claquesous smirks. “Then we’d better not.” There’s no reason to overcomplicate this. The more complicated the plan, the more room for error.

“Not taking that risk,” Babet says firmly and Claquesous can hear he’ll abide no opposition on this. “We need at least one person on the inside in case they catch on and we need to cut things short.”

“Could be me if I wasn’t needed up front,” Montparnasse frowns, but Claquesous isn’t really listening. Babet wants someone that can get in unnoticed and keep an eye on everything from behind. But this situation is high stakes enough and if it blows up in their faces it will happen fast. It would need to be someone capable of seeing that coming and acting accordingly all on their own. Someone like Montparnasse, or himself…

“I don’t want to bring in someone from outside,” Babet grunts. “Not for this, it’s too—”

“Fauntleroy,” Claquesous interrupts.

Babet shuts his mouth and Montparnasse gives him a critical look. “What?”

“Fauntleroy can be our inside,” Claquesous says.

At the second mention of their name, Fauntleroy looks up, glancing at him over Bizarro’s shoulder. Claquesous doesn’t look back at them, he’s looking at Babet, who frowns thoughtfully.

“You think Faun is up to that?”

“Yes,” Claquesous says. “If you give them enough time to get in position.” Fauntleroy is quick. They’re also clever, skilful and _very_ quiet. He’d hate to admit it out loud, but they’re probably a better burglar than he is. They’re so slight and light-footed. Besides, Fauntleroy can do with a blade what others would need a gun for and he loathes having to rely on firearms.

The other two are looking at him thoughtfully.

“Will they do it though,” Montparnasse hums.

“Big job for their first time,” Babet muses. “But if you say they can…”

“I can what?”

Fauntleroy is standing right beside them.

Claquesous smirks. He neither noticed them rise from their seat nor heard them approach. Case in point.

“You can give us cover on the inside at the warehouse meet,” he says. He glances up at their attentive face. “If you’re up for it.”

“Alone?” they ask and there is an eager edge to their voice that makes Claquesous glance smugly at Montparnasse. Fauntleroy is far more ambitious than they seem on the surface.

“If you’re up for it,” Babet repeats. “It would be rather—”

“You might begin with telling me exactly what it is I’m supposed to do,” Fauntleroy interrupts.

Claquesous silently reaches out and pulls a spare chair towards him.

“Fine,” Babet hums. “Sit down and have a look.”

Fauntleroy sits down, primly, on the edge of their seat, and their eyes move over the map attentively as Babet explains the different phases of the operation.

Claquesous leans back and watches in silence. There are parts of this he and Montparnasse will have to explain in more detail, but for now there is no need. For now it is extremely interesting.

Because that’s another thing. Fauntleroy is new at this, and they are frequently quiet – not very used to giving their opinion unasked he suspects – but to be honest, when it comes to some of their current strategies, he’d love to hear what they have to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little update before my travels.  
> Thank you very much for reading <3


	4. Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: graphic violence, torture, blood, knives.
> 
> (None of this counts as angst because the violence is being done by my protagonists, it's all about perspective~)

In a way, Babet had remarked wittily, this was nothing more than a little information gathering. It had made Montparnasse roll his eyes, but Fauntleroy had grinned at it. They’re not grinning now. The ‘informant’ has been standing there talking shit for about ten minutes straight now and they are getting sick of it. The way he’s looking at them is pissing them off even more, there’s a glint behind the bloodshot of his eyes that is far too cocky for a man that’s handcuffed to a fence. But Babet is talking and Montparnasse is hanging back passively – he looks dreadfully bored, Fauntleroy thinks – so they suspect this probably isn’t the right moment to voice their impatience.

“Listen, buddy, I’d love to help you out.” The man’s voice – what did Babet call him, Josef? – is glib and slippery and Fauntleroy can feel it dirtying up their shoes. It’s practically oozing along the ground.

Babet laughs mirthlessly at something and Fauntleroy blinks out of their thoughts. Josef is leaning back against the fence like he _wants_ to be there, like his hands aren’t forcefully crossed behind his back, and Babet is _letting_ him.

“—still is some pretty heavy shit,” Josef drawls.

Fauntleroy digs their nails in to keep from losing their patience.

Josef grins, glancing from Montparnasse to Fauntleroy, raking his eyes deliberately past their form. “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this in front of the children.”

Fauntleroy raises their eyes to his with a movement that is nearly mechanical. “How _considerate_ ,” they smile widely and before anyone can speak another word, they throw their knife straight into his right foot.

Josef’s sudden screaming mixes with a sharp laugh from Montparnasse and an exasperated exclamation from Babet.

“Give me strength,” he groans. “Another one with a preference for feet.”

Fauntleroy makes an effort to give him an apologetic look, but they’re not really sorry. Not only is Montparnasse still snickering, Josef is fighting his bonds for the first time, doing significant damage to his wrists in the process and making the rattling of the fence bounce noisily between the brick walls on either side of the yard. That’s more like it.

Besides, Babet doesn’t _actually_ look upset with them.

“Listen,” he says, fixing his pale eyes on Fauntleroy with a stern, but still faintly amused expression. “I welcome a little initiative, but it is a lot less hassle if our informants are still able to _walk_ after we’re done.”

Fauntleroy bites their lip. Fair enough.

“So no feet and no knees, alright,” Babet says, slanting his head at them. “I spent long enough nagging that habit out of Sous and Parnasse respectively.”

“You’re no fun, old man,” Montparnasse grins, speaking up to be heard over Josef’s cursing. “And if they hadn’t done it, I would have. Fucking hell the shit that runs from that guy’s trap.”

“I was just killing time to give the others a bit of a head start,” Babet shrugs. “But you’re right, best get on with it.” He makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. “Shut him up will you, Parnasse.”

There’s a vicious twang of metal as Montparnasse’s blackjack flicks out and whacks the man against the chest harshly enough to knock the breath out of him.

“Now,” Babet says conversationally, gesturing at the now spluttering Josef. “As a rule. People either talk before you’ve even touched them, start blabbering as soon as you do, or…don’t.” He smiles thinly. “In which case you can’t trust a goddamn thing they say until they literally don’t know what they’re saying anymore.”

“Here,” Montparnasse smirks, offering Fauntleroy they’re dagger back. It’s unblemished, but they don’t really care anyway, they didn’t bring one of their pretty ones. They’re not wasting anything beautiful on filth like this. “You want to do the honours?”

Fauntleroy smiles. No feet. No knees. They’re perfectly capable of following instructions. When they want to.

Josef is terribly noisy. Fauntleroy understands that interrogations are a bit difficult when the subject is gagged, but all the screaming is very annoying.

They don’t step away until their lilac gloves are splotched with red.

Babet leans against the fence, talking in a nasty, quiet sort of voice that’s making Fauntleroy want to laugh solely because it isn’t meant for them.

Montparnasse makes an approving sound at them and then looks past them rather abruptly. Fauntleroy turns and sees Claquesous leaning in the open backdoor of the shabby building. He’s wearing one of the few masks that covers only the lover half of his face, all the way to just underneath his eyes. Even at a distance Fauntleroy can see the amusement dancing in them.

“You not done here yet?” he asks, his voice muffled.

“Just about,” Montparnasse says. “Faun was giving a bit of a show.”

“Hm,” Claquesous hums and Fauntleroy wonders how long exactly he had been standing there. He makes a short movement with his head, gesturing back into the building. “Could use a hand in the other room.”

Fauntleroy glances back at Babet uncertainly, but Montparnasse shrugs.

“Sure,” he says and he shoots Fauntleroy a smirk. “My talents are hardly needed here.”

“I’ll be nicer next time,” Fauntleroy hears themself say, over the elevated beating of their heart. “We’ll share.” Everything feels rather distant just now, they’re breathing deeper than normal and the shabby yard of brick and broken concrete is suddenly bright. They still feel like laughing.

“Babet,” Claquesous speaks up. “You need anything?”

“No, run along,” Babet waves them off and his voice slides into a dark chuckle. “Josef’s been dying to tell me some things, just the two of us.”

Fauntleroy sneers and as their eye falls on the smeared steel of their knife they turn away from Claquesous and Montparnasse and walk back to Babet.

The fence rattles as Josef squirms to get away from them and Fauntleroy takes a long moment to tilt their knife thoughtfully before wiping it clean on his shirt.

Babet exhales noisily through his nose and Fauntleroy meets his eyes for a gleeful moment before joining Montparnasse and following Claquesous, who has very slowly turned back into the building. His eyes, to Fauntleroy, seem nearly vacant, but they’re gleaming very sharply.

“Fauntleroy skewered his foot,” Montparnasse mutters on their left, grinning through the words.

Claquesous’ laughter echoes eerily in the empty corridors and that, Fauntleroy realises, is the first time they’ve ever heard him laugh.

They are laughing along before they realise it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was definitely the most graphic installment of this story, but...this narrative needed blood.
> 
> Next one will be domestic again <3


	5. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of my favourites <3

“Okay, so you’re more tolerable to shop with than the others,” Montparnasse agrees measuredly.

“I’m the one doing the tolerating here,” Fauntleroy reminds him. They knew Montparnasse was fussy, but since he’s always so decisive in work matters, they hadn’t quite anticipate how _long_ he’d take picking clothes. And they thought _they_ were picky.

The two of them are on their way to Montparnasse’s apartment. Well, his shared apartment.

“Will Sous be there?” Fauntleroy asks, suddenly curious.

“Don’t know,” Montparnasse shrugs and he gives them an amused look. “You think we keep a bloody house schedule like you and Biz?”

Fauntleroy gives him an unimpressed look. “You two have to have a schedule for the bathroom or you’d have killed each other already.”

Montparnasse snorts, but doesn’t answer that and Fauntleroy represses a smirk.

They’ve never actually been to Montparnasse and Claquesous’ place before and they’re doing a bad job of hiding their curiosity when they follow Montparnasse inside. The first thing they notice is that it’s very tidy. The second that there are locks on _all_ the doors.

Most of them aren’t closed though and Fauntleroy takes a curious peek in the kitchen before going into Montparnasse’s bedroom, where he’s spreading out his purchases.

“You should pair that with your shirt with the red stitching,” Fauntleroy says, pointing at a waistcoat. Montparnasse had muttered something about wanting something good to wear on a date. Fauntleroy isn’t sure what exactly Montparnasse means by ‘date’, but they’re pretty sure he insists on looking his best even if he’s putting the clothes on only to have them be taken off again.

“Which one?” Montparnasse asks critically.

Fauntleroy walks over to his closet, which is more than a head higher than they are. “May I?”

Montparnasse gives an assenting nod after only a moment’s hesitation. He’s been a lot more willing to let them near his things since they threatened to gut Brujon for scuffing a pair of their shoes.

Montparnasse is still bitching about colour combinations, which is a feat considering most of his clothes are black as night, when Fauntleroy hears the front door open. Claquesous appears in the doorway a moment later.

“Oh great,” he says snidely. “More clothes.” His eyes flit from the array of clothing on Montparnasse’s bed to Fauntleroy. “Hi, Faun.”

“Hi,” they grin.

Claquesous lips nearly smile just under the edge of his mask.

“I got new boots,” Fauntleroy announces, pulling the box out of a bag.

Claquesous hums approvingly. “High enough to conceal your new blade,” he notes.

Fauntleroy makes a pleased sound. “Exactly.”

“More useful than yet another pile of shirts,” he says.

Montparnasse gives him a disdainful look and goes back to rearranging his coat hangers. Claquesous grins and – to Fauntleroy’s astonishment – reaches up behind his head. Almost as if…as if he’s about to remove his mask.

They freeze into place, unsure whether to look away or not. Surely he’s not really going to take it off? He never does. He wouldn’t, not in front of them.

Apparently their sudden silence makes enough of a contrast with a moment ago, because Claquesous’ hands still as he looks at them. “What?”

Fauntleroy bites down on their embarrassment and gives a short shake of their head. “Nothing,” they mutter. They’ve wondered what Claquesous looks like without his mask since the first time they were introduced, but they had never expected to be shown like this. So casually, without so much as a second thought.

Montparnasse turns around, looking between the two of them for a moment, and makes an exasperated noise. “Oh don’t make a big deal out of this, he gets off on that.”

That makes Fauntleroy bristle slightly. “You never take of your mask,” they insists. It’s not fair to make this into an overreaction on their side. They have a right to be surprised.

Claquesous leaves the mask be and leans against the doorpost, looking at them amusedly. “I’ll keep it on if you prefer,” he says.

“That’s not—” Fauntleroy glares at Montparnasse who is rolling his eyes in the background. “I kind of figured you didn’t wear it at home. It’s just, you always do when all of us hang out and I just…” They shrug.

Claquesous looks at them a little longer. “Masks aren’t a very good disguise, you know,” he says conversationally. “Everyone _can_ see you’re disguised.” He smirks. “That’s why I wear them.”

Fauntleroy frowns at him slightly. They’ve never managed to ask Claquesous why he feels the need to wear masks. Part of them always presumed it was something personal, something he didn’t like about his face.

“The mask gives people something to look at,” he continues. “By now everyone knows, if its wearing a mask, it must be Claquesous. It’s not about people not knowing me with the mask. It’s about people not knowing me _without_ it.” He grins. “But by now you’d probably know me with or without it, wouldn’t you?”

“I would hope so,” Fauntleroy says. They aren’t entirely sure they would, but Claquesous does have a very distinctive way of moving.

“So there’s really no point,” Claquesous hums and this time he actually does untie the mask.

Fauntleroy feels something odd thrill in their stomach when he moves it away from his face. It’s very strange to see the eyes they by now know so well looking at them from an unobscured face.

He’s handsome, Fauntleroy thinks with faint surprise. Not pretty like Montparnasse, but good-looking in a way they weren’t quite expecting.

“And now…” Claquesous says, tossing the mask to Montparnasse who catches it effortlessly and holds it in front of his face with an air of tried patience. “Who is Claquesous?”

He grins and Fauntleroy can’t help the slight smile in the corner of their mouth. Claquesous’ face suits his voice. And they have to admit as they glance at Montparnasse, if they were both wearing gloves to hide their difference in complexion…and if they hadn’t known…

“What he’s saying is that he wears them because he’s a dramatic bitch,” Montparnasse says, flinging the mask back at his friend.

“Have to do something to balance out your obnoxious bullshit,” Claquesous snarks.

He turns away and walks off, but Fauntleroy follows him. There’s too much fascination in them still and…they’re happy. The guys are making light of it, but this _is_ a big deal. Fauntleroy knows for a fact that Brujon has never seen Claquesous’ face and he’s known him far longer than they have.

“Would you come back here and stand still for a second,” they speak up, when Claquesous keeps walking.

He turns around and Fauntleroy is genuinely taken by surprise to still see his face. It’s odd, especially since he’s still holding the mask in his hands.

“What for?” he asks.

“Can’t I just look at you for a bit?” they huff. “This is the first time I’m seeing your face, ever.”

An amused expression passes across Claquesous’ features and to their fascination Fauntleroy recognises the glint in his eyes immediately. They smile. It’s good to see that look part of an entire expression.

Claquesous stands in front of them with a thoughtful sort of patience and Fauntleroy wonders if he’s just humouring them or if he secretly appreciates the attention. They take in his features, dwelling on everything new. He needs to shave and there is a slight indentation on each of his cheeks where the mask pressed against it.

“What exactly are you doing?” Claquesous hums.

“Memorising your face for when you put the mask back on,” they inform him.

He snorts. “Are you about done?”

“Just about,” they smile.

He shakes his head and heads off to his room. Fauntleroy watches him go, determined to get at least another good look at him before they leave, and slowly walks back to Montparnasse’s room.

Montparnasse looks up when they enter and pulls a face at them. “I know, I know,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Shame about the mask.” He grimaces. “ _Don’t_ tell Sous that.”

“Why not?” Fauntleroy hums amusedly, leaning against his bed.

Montparnasse gives them a dark look. “Because I have to live with his pretentious ass.”

Fauntleroy laughs. “Oh you are the _worst_ kind of hypocrite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually when I write modern Sous he doesn't really wear the masks? I give him sunglasses or some sort of metaphorical way of changing faces. It was fun to work the more canon use of masks in somehow.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	6. Interlude: Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: blood (but no injury), reference to violence.
> 
> If you follow my tumblr you've probably seen this already, but it belonged here...

Montparnasse checks the cookie tin before raiding the fridge, but there’s nothing homemade on offer today. Pity. Fauntleroy’s baking is very good. But soda will do as well. All Montparnasse wants is sugar really, something to brighten him up after the night’s work.

He wanders back out of the kitchen and Fauntleroy’s voice comes accusingly from the direction of the bathroom:

“Are you stealing my soda?”

Montparnasse taps his nails against the glass bottle. “Of course not,” he lies sweetly, strolling to the open bathroom door where Claquesous’ dark silhouette is just visible.

Fauntleroy is leaning over the ancient bathtub, fiddling with the showerhead.

“Go take an actual shower, Faun,” Montparnasse says irritably, frowning at their sloppy attempt to wash their hair.

“I just need to rinse it out,” Fauntleroy protests. “Won’t be a minute. Then we can report back to Babet.”

Montparnasse sighs and leans against the doorpost. This nearly makes him a mirror of Claquesous, who is leaning against the wall on the other side, striking a rather grotesque figure in one of his favourite work masks that covers his entire face. He’s jarringly greyscale in the messy, colourful surroundings of Fauntleroy, Bizarro and Brujon’s shared bathroom. He’s watching Fauntleroy rinse the blood out of their curls with an uncharacteristically fond look in his eyes.

Well, Montparnasse isn’t sure if it should _still_ be called uncharacteristic. Because Claquesous behaving weirdly around Fauntleroy is an increasingly frequent occurrence. He talks more when they’re around. He _smiles_. Not directly at them, usually, but to himself. Like he’s not even aware of it.

Montparnasse is aware of it.

He’s not sure Fauntleroy is, though, and to be honest, he’s dreading the moment they find out. Fauntleroy is unpredictable  and Claquesous is hardly the most stable person either. All the self-control in the world can’t make up for that, try as he might.

“Is it out?” Fauntleroy asks, moving upright and turning around to look in the mirror. Their forelock is not quite clean and the bleached streak in their hair has a sickening pink sheen.

“Hm,” Fauntleroy hums, pushing the wet curls out of their face. “You think I should dye my hair pink next time?”

Montparnasse stares at them, standing there with blood in their hair and water dripping on their stupidly bright but annoyingly well-matched outfit. “You’re not even kidding, are you,” he snorts.

“I never joke about my hair,” Fauntleroy says decidedly. “I quite like this shade on me… What do you think, Sous?”

Montparnasse doesn’t want to know what Sous is thinking. Not while he has that odd light in the black of his eyes.

“I think you’re good to go,” he says and he holds a purple towel out to Fauntleroy that Montparnasse never saw him take off the rack.

Fauntleroy takes it with a grin and throws it over their head to dry their hair. But just before their face disappears from view Montparnasse sees a flash of them looking ridiculously pleased. He swallows his sigh down with another swig of soda.

This is going to be such a fucking mess when it hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to remember to upload the next part tomorrow! <3


	7. Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: alcohol, scars/injury, witchcraft (does that need a warning? well anyway here you go)

Fauntleroy remembers the times they felt so trapped inside that they would do almost anything to get out. But nowadays evenings in are a good. They’re pleasantly tipsy on the partial contents of a bottle of extremely good wine Bizarro swiped from a snobby store and the smile they have on their face as they watch her unnerve Gueulemer is there to stay.

“You’re talking bullshit and you know it,” he grunts defensively.

“Look, I’m not here to make you believe the cards,” Bizarro says, turning her eyes upwards. “I just read them.”

“You’re being fucking creepy on _purpose_ ,” he insists and Fauntleroy’s amused gaze crosses Claquesous’, who is sitting on the tattered little two-seater Brujon dragged in off the street one time.

His glass is empty and Fauntleroy has been wanting to talk to him all night, so they fetch the bottle and join him, offering to refill his glass before topping up their own.

Claquesous doesn’t move away, like they almost expected, he merely raises his glass at them and silently takes another sip.

Fauntleroy follows suit, glancing contentedly around the room. “Where’s Parnasse?” they frown, only just noticing his absence.

“Kitchen,” Claquesous smirks. “Texting.”

Fauntleroy raises their eyebrows. “ _Again?_ ” Surely one of these days Montparnasse will just snap and admit that he’s seeing someone. Actually seeing someone.

Claquesous makes a vaguely amused sound and glances toward the kitchen. “At least that better be what he’s still doing in there,” he hums.

Halfway through a smirking reply, Fauntleroy’s gaze falls on the partially healed wound just visible between the edge of Sous’ mask and his right ear. The memory twists unwelcomely in their mind. That had been a _bad_ night out.

Claquesous turns back and meets their eyes, his expression changing a little when he sees the shadow on their face. He doesn’t say anything though and Fauntleroy feels like they should. They glance at Bizarro, who’s arguing over the meaning of a particular card with Gueulemer.

“You don’t believe in cards, do you,” they say thoughtfully.

Claquesous’ face is not so much covered that they can’t see the vague pull to one corner of his mouth. He shrugs slightly before giving them a rather penetrating look. “You do.”

“Sometimes,” they nod. They lean back against the back of the couch, but leave enough room for Sous to avoid touching their shoulder if he wants to.

He doesn’t move.

That alone is enough to make them smile again. “I was kind of expecting you to say you believe in a different sort of cards,” they tease.

“Mm,” Claquesous chuckles into his glass. “Well, I’m willing to believe in anything that upsets Mer, whether it’s by losing him money or freaking him out.”

“You’re mean,” Fauntleroy says fondly and they give him a push.

His eyes dart amusedly up to their face for a second, but he doesn’t reply.

“Does it still hurt?” Fauntleroy blurts out, glancing at the wound again. It will leave a scar, that’s for certain.

“Pulls a little,” he says indifferently.

He shouldn’t sound so careless, Fauntleroy thinks soberly, a little further down and—

They cut that train of thought short. Not helpful. Claquesous is giving them a rather quizzical look and in an attempt to express their feelings without making too big of a deal out of it, they pull their face into a dissatisfied scowl and announce: “I _hate_ when the people I care about get hurt.”

“Yeah,” Claquesous says in an oddly even voice. “You made that pretty clear at the time.”

Fauntleroy presses their lips together for a moment. Yes… They sprained their wrist that night.

“Well I do,” they reiterate. “And you get hurt a lot.”

“Nearly,” he corrects, taking another sip.

“ _Nearly_ getting hurt a lot is not better,” Fauntleroy scolds.

Claquesous is smiling slightly now and Fauntleroy feels faintly triumphant. They take another drink from their glass and sink deeper into the lumpy cushions of the couch. Glorieux and Brujon seem to have taken pity on Gueulemer and have interrupted Bizarro’s tarot session. There’s a lot of noise, but it’s good, friendly noise and Fauntleroy wraps it around them eagerly. They watch Brujon coax Bizarro away from Gueulemer, while Glorieux laughs at his still uneasy face. Claquesous is quiet, like he usually is, but it’s one of his casual, content silences. It’s getting easier to tell them apart.

They look at him when he leans past to put his empty glass aside, filling in the details of his face behind his mask in their mind. If Glorieux and Brujon weren’t here he might have taken off his mask. They bury their face in their glass, taking another sip. They’ve not yet managed to find out why those two are still getting the full faceless treatment. They glance at him again. Claquesous’ eyes are so dark. Almost black sometimes…

Claquesous looks up when they suddenly get to their feet.

“Be right back,” they mutter distractedly and they head off to their room. The cards have always been Bizarro’s thing. Fauntleroy appreciates them, but they’ve never really felt a lot of connection with it. They hunt through the small wooden chest on one of the middle shelves of their bookcase, looking for a shape they know should be there.

There.

Claquesous seems to actually be waiting for them when they return and they smile at how curious he looks.

“I have something for you,” they say, sitting down again.

Claquesous slants his head and when they don’t move or say anything, he holds out his hand.

Fauntleroy smiles. Two can play at the meaningful silences game. They gently place the black stone they just retrieved from their little collection on his palm. It gleams in the light, polished smooth and round.

“What’s this?” Claquesous asks and he rolls the stone around in his hand.

“Obsidian,” Fauntleroy replies. “For protection.”

Claquesous’ expression changes minutely, but they still can’t read it.

“Against what?” he asks.

“Bad things,” they say, making an effort to catch his eye, but he’s still looking at the stone. “It shields.” It also heals, if it needs to. At least, it’s supposed to, Fauntleroy likes to think it does.

“Hm,” Claquesous hums vaguely and he rubs over the stone with his thumb. He finally looks up at them and at the same time the stone disappears from his hand. “Thank you.”

Fauntleroy offers him an exasperated grimace. “I’ve seen you do that about a thousand times and I can still never see where you’re making things disappear to.”

A grin flashes past his face. “What makes you think it’s always the same place.”

They let out a frustrated breath. “Give me back my stone.”

“I’m pretty sure you just gave it to me,” Claquesous teases. “To keep me safe?”

“Give it back,” they demand.

Claquesous’ mouth pulls into a smirk and the stone is back in his hand again.

Fauntleroy narrows their eyes at it suspiciously just to make him grin again. He does and rolls the stone around, stroking it lightly with his fingers before making it disappear once again. Fauntleroy rewards him with an frantic little sound at the back of their throat and they shake their head, taking up their drink again, hiding their smile in their glass. Sous probably won’t like it if they point out he’s doing magic tricks for their amusement. So they don’t.

They’re pleased he took the stone though. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t shrug it away. He took it, and he held it like he valued it.

Suddenly Montparnasse’s voice snaps viciously from the direction of the kitchen. “You try to take my phone again and I take your fucking trigger finger.”

Brujon is coming out of the kitchen, walking backwards and laughing with his hands raised up, Montparnasse walking out behind him with his handsome face in a threatening scowl.

“You actually went in there?” Glorieux calls out. “Brave man. No telling what you might have walked in on.”

Montparnasse’s answer is appropriately rude and colourful and Fauntleroy joins in the chorus of hoots it inspires.

“Now the kitchen is free,” Bizarro says pointedly, rising from her seat. “How about food.”

“Biz,” Fauntleroy raises their voice, leaning back in the seat to stretch out their hand towards her as she walks past. “I love you, you know that?”

She touches their hand lightly, bowing a kiss over it before she moves on. “You’d better,” she grins and Fauntleroy smiles, pulling their feet comfortably up under them as Claquesous leans back easily on his side of the couch.

This is good. Evenings in are good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving myself feelings.
> 
> Shout-out to my sister, whithout whom Bizarro would never have become a fully fledged character <3


	8. Trophies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the update schedule for this is a bit of a mess, but I also know you are all far too nice to hold that against me <3  
> This one is for Jaz, because they're awesome~
> 
> Cw: blood (but no injury), knives, reference to violence.

When a job goes right, but with every potential of going wrong, Claquesous’ head is usually silent. Everything but the sounds he must rely on for planning his next action is filtered out, until it seems like there’s nothing left but silent images.

Tonight is different. Tonight Fauntleroy’s laughter comes straight through the silence. Claquesous can hear it ringing in his ears, dragging a laugh up from the depth of his own chest. He has no time to look at them until they’re safe, but once they are, he grins behind his mask at the sight of how big and glittering their eyes are. The blue of their forelock clashes with a splash of red on their left cheek and Claquesous gives himself a single moment to imagine brushing those curls out of their eyes and tilting their chin up to bring their face closer to his. Then he lets the thought go and drops it somewhere in the dark.

Fauntleroy is still breathing heavily and the laugh from before is still present in their voice when they pant: “You think that’s about the kind of message Babet wanted us to send?”

“Received loud and clear, I’d say,” Claquesous grins.

They move hastily through the deserted corridors of the now quiet building. Outside in the dark a car is waiting. The lights aren’t on, but Claquesous knows the shape. He opens the door to let Fauntleroy scramble in first and follows.

“Either of you hurt?” Babet asks sharply from the driver’s seat.

“No,” Claquesous replies calmly.

“Faun?” Babet demands.

“I’m fine,” they say and there’s a grin in their voice. “It’s not my blood.”

Claquesous muffles his chuckle by shutting the door and Babet drives off at a moderate speed. “Casualties?” he hums.

Fauntleroy glances at Claquesous.

“If they call for help, none,” he says, leaning back in the seat. “Unless…?” He looks back at Fauntleroy.

“No, I was careful,” they say.

“Excellent,” Babet grins, eyes still on the road as he turns a corner. “Good job.”

Claquesous merely smirks, but Fauntleroy makes a pleased noise that comes with a cheerful movement of their body as well. After a quick look up at his masked face, they push themselves against him, leaning into his side on the back seat. Claquesous shifts his weight a little and lets them. Montparnasse basically only touches people when he wants something, even if it’s only attention, but Fauntleroy – just like Gueulemer, albeit in a different style – has a penchant for using physical contact just to show contentment. Or friendship. Maybe both. In either case, having them sitting against him like this has become something of a regular occurrence after they’ve done a job together. It’s a little…distracting, but Claquesous doesn’t mind it. It’s hard to mind anything when Fauntleroy is looking so wildly happy and still smelling of violence.

Suddenly Fauntleroy moves again. They crane their neck to check if Babet’s attention is firmly fixed on driving and when it is, they look up at Claquesous with twinkling eyes. He raises his eyebrows at them behind his mask. Fauntleroy has become quite good at reading his expression from his eyes alone.

An impish smile spreads across their face. They slip a hand into one of their pockets and pull out what is unmistakably a knife. It’s missing its sheath and Fauntleroy has wrapped the blade in what looks like a piece of torn clothing.

That belonged to one of their marks.

Claquesous’ grin goes unseen, but judging from Fauntleroy’s expression they can still see the echo of it in his eyes. They smile wider and place a finger across their lips. Babet doesn’t like them taking trophies.

Claquesous makes a soft noise of amused approval that only Fauntleroy will be able to hear and their eyes spark. They put the knife away again and as soon as their eyes leave his, Claquesous has to fight the urge to make them look back up again. For a second he wonders what that gleeful smile on their lips would taste like.

He drops that thought in the dark as well. Out of sight and out of mind.

Fauntleroy lets out a soft, contented sigh as they lean against his arm. There something deeply comfortable about them and that is exactly why some things must stay in the dark.

Claquesous smirks slightly at their contentment and slants his head towards theirs. “Thief,” he mutters.

Fauntleroy grins, without looking at him this time. “Flatterer,” they hum in retort.

This time there’s nothing to mask Claquesous’ low chuckle and Babet glances back at the two of them for a moment. With just a touch of exasperation to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest, who was expecting this?
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	9. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: alcohol.

Claquesous doesn’t dance. When they go out he hangs against the bar, watching his friends dance instead. Sometimes Montparnasse joins him for a while, his arm draped around his shoulders in a way that he only does when he’s drunk and that Claquesous only tolerates from Montparnasse, whom he has known since they were teens. When that happens Fauntleroy can’t help but watch. Montparnasse will talk in Claquesous’ ear until Sous grins slightly and Montparnasse leaves him be again, usually picking an attractive stranger to be touchy with instead.

Fauntleroy doesn’t feel the need to do that, not at all. So if it’s the three of them going out, it’s often just them and Claquesous returning home. Fauntleroy really likes those night-time walks. But tonight there will be none of that. Tonight Montparnasse _brought_ someone.

“This is _such_ a lovely coincidence,” Jehan Prouvaire beams for the third time as they catch Fauntleroy by the hand during their dance.

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences,” Fauntleroy grins. If Montparnasse hadn’t been so stupidly secretive about who he was dating, they would have found out ages ago that his mysterious redhead was none other than the friendly Jehan who they had met several times in various hobby-related places before they had each made a rather fumbling introduction to the other.

“We’d better stop at the next song,” Fauntleroy teases. “Or Parnasse is going to accuse me of stealing his date.”

“Well, he’s welcome to join us,” Jehan laughs, glancing back at where Montparnasse and Claquesous are leaning against the bar with their drinks, watching the two of them dance.

As if on cue Montparnasse downs his drink, places his glass on the bar, and comes towards them. He moves so skilfully none of the other dancers even brush against him as he passes. Fauntleroy lets go of Jehan when he is near enough and he catches them around their waist as soon as he has an opening to.

Jehan flushes scarlet and Montparnasse grins.

Fauntleroy dances away from them and makes their way off the dance floor, brushing their damp hair out of their face and taking in some extra air as soon as they have actual space to breathe. They take Montparnasse’s place next to Claquesous, waving at the barwoman to ask for another rosé. While they wait they try to steal a sip from Claquesous’ red, but he makes a sharp sound at the back of his throat and catches their wrist before they can grab his glass.

“Come on,” Fauntleroy whines, struggling to get free.

Claquesous’ eyes glitter at them and he doesn’t let go. Fauntleroy tries a little harder and they laugh to cover up their surprise. Claquesous doesn’t really touch people casually. He tolerates a select few people touching him and they’re very pleased to be one of them. But he still doesn’t initiate much. A tap on Montparnasse’s arm to get his attention, a sudden hand on Gueulemer’s shoulder when he’s losing his temper, an offered hand when Fauntleroy climbs out of a window. That’s pretty much it.

Not that this is casual, strictly speaking, they tried to steal his drink. But it feels casual. Playful. And since Claquesous really doesn’t let go and he is considerably stronger than them, they raise their arm up in an elegant movement and spin.

Claquesous lets their wrist slip through his fingers in surprise, but he does not pull his hand away, allowing Fauntleroy to finish their pirouette.

“Made you dance,” they grin up at him and he snorts.

Their rosé arrives and Fauntleroy hops on a bar stool to accept it. They swivel round, looking out across the dance floor. Jehan is running rings round Montparnasse, shaking their hair and dancing far more wildly – far more freely – than he is used to doing. Fauntleroy smiles quietly to themself and sips their drink.

They glance over at Claquesous, who is also watching Montparnasse, or maybe Jehan, it’s hard to tell.

“Would you still have worn your mask if Jehan hadn’t been with us?” they ask suddenly. He’s wearing something close to a simple masquerade mask tonight, but sometimes when they go out he doesn’t cover his face at all.

“Maybe not,” he hums. “But the mask doesn’t stand out here.”

Fauntleroy glances around. The people here are dressed in all sorts of attire and some of them very extravagant. There is a girl with a lace ribbon tied across her face and someone with jewels dangling down from their forehead. Claquesous has a point.

“You never stand out though,” they say. “You should, but you don’t.”

“You’re pretty good at disappearing too,” Claquesous hums. “For someone dressed in neon,”

Fauntleroy grins. It helps to be quiet and small and also to have Brujon as a distraction, but they don’t feel like talking about work tonight. “This isn’t neon,” they say, lovingly stroking their new shirt. “You haven’t _seen_ me in neon yet.”

Claquesous grimaces and Fauntleroy laughs into their glass, finishing the last sip.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Claquesous says when they don’t get up to join the others after putting their glass away.

Fauntleroy slants their head at him. They were actually enjoying just watching the clamour around them, but since he mentioned it…

“You’re making me dance alone though,” they point out.

Claquesous’ posture stiffens a bit and Fauntleroy fights down a laugh.

“ _Worse_ ,” they add teasingly. “You’re making me be a third wheel.”

“Didn’t have a problem with that before,” he grunts.

Fauntleroy makes an exaggerated noise of indignation. “You won’t dance with me.”

“No,” Claquesous says flatly.

“Stick-in-the-mud,” Fauntleroy grins, swatting him against his arm. “You never let me do anything I want.”

Claquesous huffs and Fauntleroy laughs because it’s a blatant lie and they know it. Claquesous lets them get away with stuff he’d _never_ suffer from their other friends, excepting Montparnasse perhaps.

“Am I supposed to wildly protest now?” he says, sneering slightly, but with badly hidden amusement in the dark of his eyes.

“Would be the entertaining thing to do,” Fauntleroy smirks. “And since you refuse to _dance_ with me for entertainment…”

Claquesous gives them an unimpressed look.

Fauntleroy laughs. Maybe they’ll have another drink, it’s that sort of night. “You don’t need to violently defend your honour,” they quip, trying to get the bartenders attention again. “Stupid promises that you’ll let me ask for anything except to dance with you are also acceptable.”

Claquesous’ snorts and Fauntleroy allows themself a burst of triumph. That snort could almost be called a laugh, and in _public_ too. They give up vying for the bartenders attention in favour of grinning at Claquesous again.

He looks at them across the top of his glass as he takes another sip. “What would you ask then?” he says suddenly.

They weren’t expecting that. “Oh I don’t know,” Fauntleroy hums airily, swinging their feet on the high stool. “To give me your mask?” That’s definitely the rosé talking, they would _never_.

Claquesous gives them an appraising look. “Alright,” he says and he drains his glass.

“What?” Fauntleroy flusters.

“Come on,” he says and before they can protest he disappears towards one of the booths in the corners.

There are people sitting there, but they’re making themselves scarce before Fauntleroy has even arrived. Claquesous tends to have that effect on people when he wants something.

“Sous,” Fauntleroy protests. “I really didn’t—” But Claquesous is grinning at their confusion and Fauntleroy narrows their eyes at him. They slide into the booth next to him. “Did you just want to sit,” they say accusingly. “You’re—”

Before they’ve thought of something appropriate, Claquesous leans all the way back against the wall so he’s completely hidden in shadows to anyone looking in from further away, and actually takes off his mask.

Fauntleroy gapes at him, just a little. They’ve seen him in public without his mask exactly three times now, but he has _never_ started out wearing it and taken it off.

Claquesous’ expression is subdued, but he’s clearly enjoying this. With a flourish of his hand he holds the mask out to them. “Here you go.”

Fauntleroy takes it, because they’re not going to let on how stupidly flustering this is, but they’re almost afraid to touch it. Claquesous is so very particular about his masks. He has never let them touch any of them before. They hold it like it’s about to crumble under their touch and Claquesous laughs softly. It’s a low, darkly pleasant sound and it sticks to Fauntleroy’s skin somehow.

“You want to give it back already?” he asks amusedly. It really sounds like he’s about to laugh out loud.

“How much wine did you have?” Fauntleroy grumbles.

“Not as much as you,” Claquesous drawls. He holds out his hand to take the mask back, but he doesn’t lean forward, forcing Fauntleroy to come towards him to bridge the gap.

“I should keep this,” they threaten. “At least until the others come and find us, so I’ll have proof.” But they put the mask in Claquesous’ hand all the same.

“Thank you kindly,” he hums and he places the mask in front of his face again, changing the entire mood of his appearance.

Fauntleroy watches him tie the velvet strings behind his head and he looks back at them from behind the still shifting mask. A small, satisfied smile ghosts past Claquesous’ lips as he looks at them, just visible under the edge of his mask, and Fauntleroy wants to kiss him.

Every single other thought in Fauntleroy’s head freezes in place. They want to kiss him. They want to pull the mask away again and press their lips against his.

They’ve never wanted to kiss him before.

They’re never wanted to kiss _anyone_ before.

They’ve wanted…things. Things they usually didn’t really look into too much because they always felt they were better left inside their head.

They’ve wanted things from Claquesous too, but not like that. They’ve wanted to make him talk more. To know what he really thinks about them. To be sure he doesn’t mind when they pester him or sit against him when they’re tired. Because they do want that. To sit against him sometimes, to tease him to make him laugh. To be close to him. But never—

“What are you hiding in here for?”

The only reason Fauntleroy doesn’t visibly startle when Montparnasse and Jehan slide onto the bench opposite them is because they’ve had years of practice hiding things like that.

“We hardly thought we’d be missed,” Claquesous says measuredly. He sounds a little more guarded now Jehan is here again, but not different enough to make Fauntleroy forget about the way he laughed just now, or the way he smiled.

They are grateful for Montparnasse’s sneering reply and Jehan’s placating banter to make up for it. It means nobody notices they take a moment for themself, to sit very still and be very silent, and struggle very hard to piece together what they think of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this so long ago. I had to wait _so long_ before I could upload it!


	10. Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: knives (does that even need a warning at this point?)
> 
> (I'm dedicating this one to Feyland, because she is a sweetheart and /so/ talented <3)

“What did you need me for again?” Fauntleroy mutters, trudging along besides Montparnasse.

He waves them away, scowling as he holds his phone to his ear. “I don’t care how,” he resumes his conversation. “Isn’t Mamselle in town?”

Fauntleroy bites the inside of their lip and keeps walking. They haven’t been to Sous and Montparnasse’s apartment since…since the club. Of course they’ve been fine, really, and this isn’t a big deal, but they weren’t really counting on Montparnasse dragging them there after a simple intel stop. They’re being ridiculous and they know it, but that doesn’t stop them from resenting Montparnasse as they follow him into the lift. It doesn’t work half the time, but when it does Montparnasse _always_ takes the lift.

“Jesus,” Montparnasse curses, shoving his phone back in this pocket and unlocking the front door. “You’d think that they’d learn to—” He stops dead in his tracks in the living room doorway.

When Fauntleroy looks past him they are just in time to see Gueulemer barely resist the urge to chuck his game controller at an obnoxiously grinning Gavroche.

“ _Putain de bordel de merde!_ ”

“ _Mer_ ,” Glorieux grunts, punching him hard in the shoulder. “I thought we agreed no fucking cursing around the child.”

“Wasn’t listening anyway,” Gavroche assures him, the grin nudging into shit-eating territory. “Way too busy kicking his ass.”

“Watch it, you little gremlin,” Gueulemer growls, waiting for his character to respawn. “I’ll get you for that.”

“You’ll _try_ ,” Gavroche grins.

“Afternoon,” Montparnasse says pointedly and Fauntleroy sees four heads turn abruptly into their direction.

It’s only at that point that they notice Éponine’s sister Azelma sitting in the chair in the corner.

“Parnasse!” Gavroche beams and he scrambles to get up to greet him.

Montparnasse allows himself to be jostled about a bit and gives Gavroche an affectionate tug on his hoody, but his eyes are fixed on Azelma. Who, it seems to Fauntleroy, is trying very hard to stare him down instead of looking away.

“Does Ponine know you’re here?” Montparnasse asks and there is a sharpness in the tone of his voice.

That is exactly what Fauntleroy was wondering too. Because the thing is, this is probably only the third time they have _ever_ seen these kids. Fauntleroy doesn’t even know Éponine that well. She’s around, sometimes, and they like her quite like her, but they don’t _know_ her. Whenever the guys are sharing stories, it seems Éponine only features in them if they come from the time before her father got arrested.

Gavroche is already hurrying back to the tv, throwing himself back in the game with the eagerness of a child that knows they are probably playing on borrowed time. Gueulemer and Glorieux are carefully avoiding to look at Montparnasse, which makes Azelma’s defiant glare all the more impressive.

 “Just cause I’m supposed to babysit doesn’t mean I need to stay at home, do I,” she says defensively.

“So she doesn’t know,” Montparnasse says, voice level. He finally walks into the room, allowing Fauntleroy to do the same. But they hang back a bit, they’re not sure they’ve ever seen Montparnasse this tense and this forcefully calm at the same time. He doesn’t look or even sound angry, but something definitely feels off.

“And so what,” Azelma retorts. “It’s not like she tells me when she runs off to secretly hang out with you cause she’s fed up with all the bullshit.”

At that moment Claquesous appears in the kitchen doorway, carrying a bag of crisps and a can of soda. He glances in their direction, but Fauntleroy forgets to greet him, because the next moment he and Montparnasse are suddenly locking eyes in silent disagreement and Fauntleroy absolutely does not want to get mixed up in this.

After a horrendously long couple of seconds, Claquesous breaks eye contact, walks past Azelma, and hands her the can. She takes it with a half-cautious, half-triumphant glance at Montparnasse and Fauntleroy feels the tension in the room shift. Apparently this means the discussion will be dropped.

Claquesous chucks the bag of crisps in the general direction of Gavroche’s head, who leans back quickly enough to make it drop into his lap instead. He makes a delighted noise in response and for a moment a grin flickers around Claquesous’ mouth. Then he sits down on the armrest of Azelma’s chair and turns to watching the video game with an air of no more than mild interest. Like this situation is nothing out of the ordinary.

“I’m guessing no talking work for now,” Fauntleroy mutters.

“You guess right,” Montparnasse replies somewhat stiffly. He pulls out his phone again, possibly to text Éponine, and Fauntleroy leaves him be. They sit down on the windowsill, watching Gueulemer getting his ass kicked once again by a thirteen year old. They feel oddly removed from all this, like this is part of a time before they belonged here and that this makes them an outsider again.

Neither Sous nor Azelma say a word, and the gamers are very loud, but Fauntleroy still feels their attention drawn towards their corner. Curled up as she is in her chair, Azelma is _nearly_ leaning against Claquesous with her shoulder. And there’s something oddly soft about him that Fauntleroy doesn’t think they’ve ever seen before. Not like this. They suddenly can’t remember if they’ve ever seen Azelma and Claquesous together before. They can’t have. Because they _definitely_ would have remembered something like this.

Azelma raises her head, looking up at Claquesous and saying something that gets lost in the hue and cry of yet another scene of carnage on the screen and Claquesous mutters something in reply.

Fauntleroy watches him with endeared fascination. Claquesous rarely talks about Éponine and they’ve never heard him mention her siblings, but—

“Faun, you want to play?” Gueulemer calls out suddenly.

“Hm?” Fauntleroy hums distractedly. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on, Faun,” Glorieux snorts. “Save the poor bastard from another humiliation.”

Gueulemer gives him a dirty look, but still holds out the controller for Faun to take. When they shake their head however, he shrugs and turns back to the screen, no doubt determined to get some disproportionate revenge on Glorieux. Fauntleroy doesn’t pay enough attention to the game to find out.

Azelma is happily chatting to Claquesous now and he’s listening in a way that is very familiar to Fauntleroy, attentively, but without giving a single reply.

Fauntleroy doesn’t realise how long they have been watching the two of them, until Claquesous’ eyes suddenly flit into their direction. They feel their face grow hot, but instead of looking annoyed or uncomfortable, a vague grin passes across Claquesous’ face and he mutters something to Azelma. She looks round and to Fauntleroy’s surprise, looks kind of nervous. For a moment it looks like she might get up and then she doesn’t.

Almost without thinking Fauntleroy slides off the windowsill and made their way over to the corner.

“Faun,” Claquesous hums amusedly. “Zelma was just going to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Fauntleroy says and they’re doing their best to sound reassuring and friendly, but they’re a little too curious to sound as easy as they wanted to.

The nervous look is back on Azelma’s face, but she skilfully covers it up with layers of teenage nonchalance. She glances up at Fauntleroy. “Sous says you have knives that are the right size for me to handle.”

Well. They weren’t expecting that.

“Maybe,” Fauntleroy says cautiously and they glance past her at Claquesous. One of his eyebrows raises just a little and there’s the faintest hint of a smile in one corner of his mouth. Fauntleroy bites their lip, a laugh dancing low in their chest.

“He says we could go out on the roof and practice,” Azelma continues and a little of her genuine eagerness is beginning to shimmer through on her face.

Fauntleroy grins. They’ve never really had the opportunity to talk to Azelma. It’s becoming a little more understandable why Claquesous is so fond of her.

“Sure,” they say pleasantly. “I’d like to see what you can do.”

The delighted determination on Azelma’s face is oddly nostalgic to see and Fauntleroy grins at her.

Claquesous is already moving towards the kitchen, through the window of which they can reach the roof, and Fauntleroy follows Azelma, who is glancing back at where Montparnasse is watching her brother commit virtual atrocities.

“Eager to have your blades ruined, are you?” Claquesous says teasingly when they join him on the roof, a grin clearly visible under the edge of his mask.

“I won’t _ruin_ them,” Azelma says indignantly and she raises her voice in a way Fauntleroy is certain she would not have done back in the living room. Her sullen demeanour is melting away in favour of something brighter.

“You better not,” Fauntleroy warns her jokingly and they make a little show of pulling their trio of knives from their various hiding places.

Azelma’s eyes widen. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, taking in the rainbow shine on the blades. “Oh they’re so pretty.”

Fauntleroy smiles at her. They remember being that age, still thinking they had to choose between soft and pretty or sharp and dangerous. They twirl one of the knives around in their hand, making Azelma’s eyes sparkle and offer it to her, handle forward.

“Here you go.”

“Start slow,” Claquesous instructs immediately. “No tricks until I’ve seen how much you’ve forgotten.”

Fauntleroy takes a step back to watch, still holding the other two knives in their hand. Azelma’s form is surprisingly good, this is clearly not her first lesson and she’s not out of practice either.

“Not bad,” Claquesous hums and Azelma’s cheeks actually dimple with pride.

She looks up at Claquesous. “Tricks?”

“Alright then,” he smirks, taking out a blade of his own. “See if you can keep up.” He holds still with his weapon loosely in his hand and glances at Fauntleroy. “Unless…you want to show her some stuff, Faun?”

Fauntleroy slants their head and glances at Azelma. This is only a guess, but they think Azelma had rather that they declined. “I’m happy to watch,” they say and that’s certainly true.

“I want to see you later!” Azelma says eagerly, flashing them a genuine smile and Fauntleroy nods.

“Sure thing, but first show me what you’ve got.”

They smile to see the determined concentration on Azelma’s face. She’s watching Claquesous spin his knife with every ounce of attention in her body and she copies him nigh perfectly. The spark of approval in Claquesous’ eyes is making something confused and warm buzz in Fauntleroy’s ribcage.

At some point they need to start figuring this stuff out, but not now. Right now they want to watch Claquesous and Azelma play with knives on a rooftop.

Claquesous drives up the difficultly of his moves rather fast and Azelma begins to make mistakes. Whenever she does, Claquesous always waits for her to try again. He has a specific way of instruction, always letting her try three times before correcting her and Fauntleroy wonders how much time they used to spend practicing like this. They also can’t help wondering if this is how Claquesous was taught. He rarely talks about it, but every now and again he says something that sounds like he isn’t self-taught like they are.

After trying no less than eleven times Azelma lets out a cry of triumph as her hand finally closes around the handle of the knife again the way it’s supposed to.

“Brilliant!” Fauntleroy cheers and she beams at them before glancing eagerly at Claquesous, who isn’t holding back his grin.

“Well done, half-pint,” he praises and Azelma looks so pleased that Fauntleroy can almost feel the warmth of it on their skin.

“Have you ever practiced with two?” Fauntleroy asks, stepping up to her.

“Tricks or moves?” Azelma asks.

“Moves,” they say.

“A little,” she nods and Claquesous makes a vaguely surprised noise.

“Want to show us?” Fauntleroy grins encouragingly and they offer Azelma a second knife.

Azelma takes it eagerly and glances at Claquesous. He gives her a nod and with careful, deliberate movements she begins to move through the open space on the roof, shifting between defensive and offensive stances. Fauntleroy is torn between watching her and keeping an eye on Claquesous. His dark eyes are glinting behind his mask and his expression is unmistakably proud. Proud and fond.

“Don’t turn your feet, Zelma,” he raises his voice and Azelma slows down a little while she corrects her stance.

She carries on determinedly, almost graceful, but not quite yet. She is fascinating to watch, every turn that she makes either makes her look very young or suddenly years older. But, Fauntleroy reminds themself, she really is hardly more than a kid. Azelma whirls around, the blades glinting in her hands just like the glitters in her nail polish.

Fauntleroy grins. A very talented kid.

“Éponine doesn’t mind this, does she?” they ask Claquesous teasingly.

“She didn’t before.”

The grin slips off Fauntleroy’s face. That sounded rather cold and gruff. They glance up at Claquesous’ eyes. He’s still watching Azelma move steadily through her practice figures, but there’s suddenly something tense about his posture and Fauntleroy isn’t quite sure why. Maybe Claquesous misses this more than he wants to admit. Who knows how often they used to do this, before Éponine decided she wanted a different life for her family.

Fauntleroy carefully directs their gaze towards Azelma again. It’s portably best not to ask. “She’s good,” they say instead. “Was that just you teaching her?”

He shakes his head and suddenly a faint smile flickers around his lips. “She already was pretty good when I first caught her trying to nick my knives.”

Fauntleroy stifles a laugh. “Well.” They nod at Azelma, who is grinning at her own accomplishments. “She’s certainly got a spark for it.”

“Mm,” Claquesous hums and the tenseness seems to have left him again. “Reckon she might learn a thing or two from you.” His eyes twinkle down at them for a moment. “Some of your cheating sneakiness.”

“It is the world’s problem that I move largely under its direct line of sight, not mine,” Fauntleroy grins.

“Like I said,” Claquesous hums. “Sneaky.”

“You’re very rude,” Fauntleroy says fondly, pushing at the fizzing in their chest and taking a resolute step away from him and towards Azelma. “Hey, Zelma, want to learn something that helped me beat Sous once?”

Judging from Azelma’s expression, there is nothing on this earth she would like more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get the Thénardier kids in somehow.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Moonrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A flipped pov from my first Claqueleroy piece, uploaded as a one-shot [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210986). Also a good time to remind everyone that I never would have started writing this version of Fauntleroy if it hadn’t been for Azura <3

Fauntleroy’s neighbourhood is pretty quiet. It’s not even twelve yet and still there’s barely anyone on the street. He knows Faun is home because Brujon said they were. Of course they might be busy, quite likely probably, but short of Bizarro needing them for something Claquesous is sure that whatever they’re doing won’t stop them from coming with him. He can be pretty persuasive and Fauntleroy is naturally curious, it’s pretty easy to play into.

Claquesous grins at himself. Getting this sorted out in time was hasty work, but it’s going to be worth it. Glancing up as he approaches the building, he can see there is still light coming from Fauntleroy’s living room window. Good, that probably means he won’t have to call them. He’ll try texting first.

He pulls out his phone and after a moment’s consideration sends only: *Come down?*

This is his regular phone, so they’ll know it’s him, and this is meant to be a surprise after all.

He waits, stepping away from the glaring street light to look up at the window. Sure enough, the window opens and Fauntleroy leans out. They glance down and Claquesous looks at them, knowing they won’t be able to see him grin. He blindly sends another text, his fingers know the pattern of the buttons well enough.

*Bring a coat.*

Claquesous can’t quite see Fauntleroy’s expression, but he sees them look at their phone and he grins when they flutter their hand at him in exasperation before ducking back inside. They’re coming down. He glances at his phone. Right on time too.

He saunters to the entrance of their building, already hearing footsteps on the stairs on the other side. They appear with their coat still unbuttoned, but their eyes fixed on him expectantly. Claquesous nearly smiles at the way their hair has been brushed out of their face. They must have been crafting, it’s the only time they run their hand through their hair often enough to smooth their curls back like that.

“Evening,” he hums.

“Night,” Fauntleroy corrects, eying him suspiciously. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer yet, but glances down at his phone. The time lights up in blue letters on the black.

23:59

00:00

He glances back up at Fauntleroy again, keeping his expression neutral. “Happy birthday.”

Fauntleroy’s face changes instantly and Claquesous barely holds back his grin.

They let out an incredulous, but very amused breath. “Thank you,” they say. They’re smiling despite the rolling of their eyes. “Had to be first, did you?” they snort softly and Claquesous enjoys the fond expression on their face. It doesn’t last long though, suddenly clouding over as they look at him. “Hey, this doesn’t mean that you’re not coming to my party, right?” they say.

“I promised I’d come,” Claquesous says, raising his hands in submission. “So I will.”

It’s probably going to be a bit crowded for his taste, but it’s not like he’d actually miss it. Not a chance.

“Good,” Fauntleroy says firmly and they genuinely look relieved.

“But I can’t give you your present then,” Claquesous continues smoothly. He didn’t come here just to stand on their doorstep.

Fauntleroy frowns slightly. “Why not?”

“Cause the moon rises at a quarter to one.”

Fauntleroy stares at him. “The moon…” they say uncertainly. “What—?”

Claquesous turns to the side, slowly, waiting for them to follow him and they do. To his delight they still don’t get it and he walks slowly down the road, sliding his hands into his pockets as they ask curiously:

“Where are we going?”

He’s not very good at presents, but Claquesous flatters himself he’s pretty good at stuff like this. Favours and tokens…

And things like this beat a simple present any day. Fauntleroy’s face is glowing with confused curiosity and he’s almost inclined to lead them around the block once just to see their anticipation build.

“ _Where_ are we going,” they repeat, something like frustration at the edge of their voice. “Sous, seriously.”

He glances at them. “I thought you liked surprises,” he hums, but he’s not entirely sure if he’s keeping things too vague for them. Perhaps they need to know he won’t be taking them far.

They look at him and tuck a lock of hair behind their ear. “Maybe I do,” they say. “But still.”

Claquesous looks down the street towards his destination and gestures upwards, silently indicating the vague shape of a tall building towering over the street in the dark. It’s the highest structure in the neighbourhood and Fauntleroy can’t stand it. They’re forever complaining that it spoils their view, even when they climb onto their roof. Well, tonight Claquesous intends to fix that.

Fauntleroy’s eyes widen with realisation. “You _didn’t_ ,” they hiss, a sudden spark in their voice, and Claquesous can’t help but grin.

He dangles the set of stolen master keys in front of them and Fauntleroy’s face lights up like the bloody dawn. Their pace quickens with eagerness and Claquesous laughs softly at their excitement. Their emotions are always so visible. They’re more quiet than him sometimes, but their body is so incredibly expressive.

They are both quiet as they make their way inside the building. It should be completely deserted. There’s no guard, the place relies on cameras. But Claquesous knows where those are and there are not so many of them that they can’t be avoided. He silently disables the alarm and leads Fauntleroy through the winding corridors and up the many staircases. They follow him on graceful, soundless feet, waiting with poorly repressed anticipation whenever they have to wait for him to unlock a maintenance door. They’re excited. This night is already a success.

The night air rolls in on them with pleasant coolness when he finally opens the door to the roof and Fauntleroy makes a soft sound at the back of their throat.

“After you,” Claquesous hums, stepping aside and holding the door.

Fauntleroy grins at him and darts out onto the roof with eager quickness. Claquesous silently closes the door behind him as they look around. They’re like a bright little bluejay set loose on the night. They look back at them and Claquesous gestures to the box-like construction covering up part of the ventilation system towards the edge of the roof. They are conveniently on the east side of the building and should provide the perfect seat for watching the moonrise.

Fauntleroy sits down, drawing up one of their knees and hugging their leg as they search the horizon. A variety of faint expressions is flickering on their face, but they are smiling all the while. They like this. He made the right choice.

Claquesous sits down next to them, not too close, and leans forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He’s watching the horizon, but most of his attention is on Fauntleroy. They are searching the night sky, looking around them quietly.

The silence between them is comfortable and he does not feel the need to fil it. It’s blessedly quiet in his mind and he does not make a sound, until the first sliver of silver light on the eastern horizon reaches his eye. He hums softly at Fauntleroy and they follow his gaze immediately.

Claquesous watches the moon, smiling softly at the slow breath of admiration Fauntleroy breathes beside him. They stare transfixed for a moment, before happily nudging against him, bumping against his shoulder. He hums pleasantly at them, slanting his head as he looks at the moon.

“Should have been a full moon, shouldn’t it?” he muses. The moon is quite round, but not there yet.

“No,” Fauntleroy says fondly. “This is perfect. It’s waxing.”

If that carries some sort of symbolism with it, it is lost on Claquesous, but Fauntleroy would definitely know. “Is that good?” he asks, repressing a smile.

“Yes,” they say decidedly.

Claquesous nods and watches the moon rise, glancing at Fauntleroy only once to see the silver reflected in their eyes. After that he keeps his eyes on the sky, letting his thoughts drift in the quiet. He’s rather far away when Fauntleroy’s voice trickles through gently:

“You know that Artemis wasn’t originally the deity of the moon?”

Claquesous slants his head towards them to indicate that he’s listening, Fauntleroy doesn’t often tell stories unprompted.

“In Greek Myth there is an actual goddess of the moon,” they continue. “Selene, sister of the sun and the dawn…” Their murmuring voice trails off and they fall quiet again.

Perhaps they need a little prompting after all.

“Does she have stories?” Claquesous asks, eyes still on the sky. He likes hearing Fauntleroy talk, especially when they tell stories.

“Not too many,” they say softly. “There’s the story of the young man she stole.”

Claquesous looks at them, raising an eyebrow behind his mask, and something merry sparks in Fauntleroy’s eyes.

“Selene is one of the virginal goddesses,” they tell. “Or supposed to be anyway. But she fell in love with a beautiful young shepherd named Endymion. He fell asleep while tending his cattle and Selene saw him in his slumber. He was so pretty resting in the shadows that she never wanted to stop looking at him. So she climbed down from the heavens by her strings of moonlight and carried him back into the sky with her. She laid him to sleep in her bed and pressed a kiss on his brow that would ensure he would never wake again, so she could admire him forever.”

He doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting, but he should have expected something like this. Fauntleroy’s favourites are always like this. Romantic and unnerving. “That’s kind of terrifying, Faun,” he remarks amusedly.

“I know.” They sound very pleased with themself.

“Pretty though,” he says.

“Yeah…” Fauntleroy sighs and they smile happily.

More romantic in their tastes than their habits, Claquesous thinks vaguely. It’s why he thought they might like this. Midnight, moonlight, casual trespassing. He’s pleased he was right. It’s very hard sometimes, guessing what Fauntleroy likes.

They are looking at the sky again, the moonlight turning their skin unusually pale and the smile suddenly fills their whole face. “Thank you, Sous,” they say softly and Claquesous turns his eyes to the moon again before they look at him. “This…this is great.”

He hums warmly at them, but doesn’t look, even when he can tell they keep looking at him. He’s fine, most of the time. Sometimes being so close to them is just…difficult. Worth it, always, but difficult.

He spreads his hands on his legs and grips his knees. He never needs long to pull himself together, just a—

Fauntleroy puts their hand over his and curls their fingers around the side of his fingers. “Thank you,” they repeat earnestly.

Claquesous’ mind stutters for a moment. He can feel Fauntleroy’s hand press against his, strong fingers on a soft little hand.

It would be so easy to grab them and pull them towards him. To tip their head back and kiss some of that moonlight off their lips.

It would also be a perfect way to ruin absolutely everything.

So he does what he always does. Takes the image, holds it dear, and leaves it to fall away in the dark.

With his self-control back in place he turns his palm up under Fauntleroy’s touch and takes their hand in his. He looks at them, softly squeezing their hand for a moment and rubbing his thumb over their fingers a single time before he lets go.

“Bon anniversaire, Bouquetière.”

Fauntleroy smiles at him and lets their hand slide out of his, looking back up at the moon. They really do look happy.

That is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to copy paste an existing work, but this piece belongs here.
> 
> Jehanparnasse week slowed my updates down, so I'll try to remember more freqently to make up for it. There's 8 chapters left, none of them long except for the penultimate, and I'm excited to share them, so why not~
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Sunshine

“Jehan.”

“Hm?”

Fauntleroy stares at the blades of grass blocking their vision and reconsiders what they were going to say. They hear footsteps coming closer and look up to see Jehan sit down beside where they are lying in the grass, their freckled arms full of freshly picked dandelions.

Before the two of them were reintroduced by Montparnasse, Fauntleroy never used to hang out with Jehan like this. They sometimes met at shops or markets, once by happy accident at an auction, going out for tea after running into one another yet again, but never really meeting up just for the sake of it.

But now they do and it’s nice. Really nice. It means keeping secrets of course, deliberately not talking about work, carefully avoiding certain subjects, but Jehan has clearly had enough practice with that. They don’t seem to mind at all, so Fauntleroy doesn’t either.

“What is it, Faun?” Jehan says pleasantly, starting to sort the dandelions to weave them into a crown.

Fauntleroy chews on their lip. “I was wondering… Did you ask Parnasse out or he you?”

They peer up at Jehan soon enough to see their cheeks flush with a happy pink. Fauntleroy is glad they don’t blush so easily as their friend, Jehan blushes at absolutely everything.

“He asked me,” they reply, smiling softly down at them. “But I asked him if he would be my boyfriend.”

Fauntleroy looks down again. They had not even considered that yet. But yes, those are different things. For most people anyway. They blow at a blade of grass with faint resentment. Why are all these things so needlessly complicated.

“How did he ask you?”

Another blush. “With a single rose.”

Fauntleroy lets out a soft laugh. That is just like Montparnasse. Well, at least there would be no doubt as to his intentions…

They are drifting off into their thoughts again, but beside them Jehan is suddenly sitting very still. They put their dandelions aside and lean their head to the side until they can see Fauntleroy’s face, their hair tumbling down like a curtain of auburn silk.

“Faun…are you…?”

Fauntleroy tries to avoid looking at them but short of actually closing their eyes that is becoming rather difficult. Jehan’s fond, freckled face is nearly right in front of them now and Fauntleroy looks up at them in defeat.

Even with their head slanted sideways Jehan’s expression looks delighted. “Who is it?” they ask eagerly. “I mean,” they add hastily. “If you want to tell me, of course.”

It’s a little late for wisely choosing not to speak now. Fauntleroy averts their gaze from the large, curiosity-filled eyes of their friend and looks down their nose at the grassy ground. “…Sous,” they mutter.

Jehan takes in a delighted breath. “ _Sous_.”

“Don’t,” Fauntleroy groans softly, because Jehan is making soft noises of pleased surprise that really do not sound like they at all understand how hopeless this situation is.

“Is that why you asked?” Jehan says delightedly. “Are you waiting for him to ask you out? Do you want to ask _him_ out?”

“I’m not sure Sous ever asks people out,” Fauntleroy says, trying not to sound too glum. “He doesn’t talk about that stuff at all, he’s way too private for that.”

“I can imagine he is,” Jehan says. They hum thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t know about him and relationships, of course, but from what Parnasse has told me about when they met…” They stop halfway through their sentence just as Fauntleroy would have been rather grateful if they kept talking, and glance down at them with gentle inquiry on their face. “To be honest, I would have thought that it would be you who wouldn’t be interested in a romantic relationship rather than Claquesous.”

Now Fauntleroy does feel their cheeks redden. “I…I always liked the idea of them better than the practice,” they mutter. “But…”

“But it seems worth it now?” Jehan says, cheeks dimpling as they smile.

Fauntleroy makes a helpless sound. “I don’t know,” they mumble. “I’m just…thinking about it. But it’s hard…I don’t even know if he’d…” They think of Claquesous and the too many quiet looks that are far too hard to decipher. “I don’t think he likes…mixing his personal and professional life.”

“Well that’s just not true,” Jehan says, busying themself with their dandelions again. “You – the Patron-Minette I mean – _are_ his life, clearly.”

Fauntleroy turns their head. “That’s not true,” they protest. “He’s so much more than that.”

Jehan smiles softly at them. “I didn’t mean it in a negative way, Faun,” they say. “I meant that you’re his friends. And very close to family in some cases.”

“I…” Fauntleroy shuts their mouth. Jehan is right, of course, but that was not what they meant either. “I meant…he doesn’t…” They look up at Jehan uncertainly. “Montparnasse never brought anyone along to meet us before you,” they say. “Not like Bizarro does. But he did…brag.”

To their relief Jehan looks amused rather than offended or hurt. “Did he now?” they hum, smiling down at their dandelion stems. They glance up briefly. “And Sous doesn’t, you mean.”

Fauntleroy hums in confirmation.

“Well…” Jehan says thoughtfully. “He is a private sort of person, you said that yourself. And just because he doesn’t make a habit of dating people, doesn’t mean that he _doesn’t_.”

Their eyes twinkle down at Fauntleroy for a moment.

“Maybe he’s waiting for the right person.”

Fauntleroy feels a burst of jitters in their stomach, but they do their best to squash it down. Apparently it shows on their face, because Jehan’s expression sobers a little.

“You don’t think he ever thought of you in that way?” they ask.

“Sometimes it feels like he does…” Fauntleroy mumbles. “Or he might.” It really does. The rare times that they’re alone together or sometimes when he looks at them while their friends are all crowded and noisy around them. But they can’t be sure and it would be far too easy for them to have imagined it all. Because they want it to be true.

“He certainly treats you differently,” Jehan says warmly.

“You think so?” Fauntleroy asks. They know he does, really. But he’s also different with Montparnasse. It’s a _different_ different, but still.

“Definitely,” Jehan says and after a while they add cautiously: “His behaviour to you stands out more than your behaviour to him.”

Fauntleroy pushes themself up off the ground on their elbows and gives Jehan a searching look. “What do you mean?”

“You are much more…expressive than most of your friends,” Jehan says cautiously. “I did think you and Sous were good friends. I thought he had a soft spot for you,” they smile. “Just like I do.” Their face turns almost apologetic. “But I would not have guessed you liked him that much more than most of your other friends.”

Fauntleroy stares at the dandelions.

“…so maybe Sous wouldn’t know either?” Jehan supplies gently.

That had actually been something Fauntleroy had been counting on. That nobody would be able to see. Nobody would be able to tell. Because as long as that was the case they’d be safe. It had not occurred to them that it might mean, well, that Claquesous would think they _didn’t_ care for him in particular. It sounds abominably stupid and paradoxical when they think of it like this.

“My friend Feuilly,” Jehan says suddenly, their tone light and conversational. “Is aromantic. But I’m pretty sure he still likes his roommate Bahorel better than anyone else in the entire world. For a long time he didn’t know how to tell him that at all.” They look at Fauntleroy with a slight grimace. “Because our language is so bad at expressions of non-romantic love, you know. There’s no…no templates.”

That’s certainly true. Annoyingly so. “So what did he do?” Fauntleroy asks.

Jehan frowns slightly. “I’m not entirely sure,” they confess. “Because the story changes every time Bahorel tells it and I’ve never managed to get Feuilly to tell it to me in full on his own. But I think it involved a conversation that ended in some sort of blood oath being sworn and deciding to get a dog together.”

Fauntleroy face warms to a genuine smile. “Good for them.”

Jehan smiles back. “What I was trying to say is that you don’t have to ask him out if you don’t want to.” They look a bit uncertain for a moment. “I mean…if you don’t know if you even want that yet, maybe start with what you do know you want?”

That’s probably very good advice. Or it would be if Fauntleroy knew anything at all. At this point they are thoroughly convinced that they don’t.

Jehan carefully winds another stem around the base of a dandelion bloom. They grimace slightly. “I’m being a hypocrite,” they mutter. “I was so in love with Parnasse and I didn’t say a word I just…” They pull a face. “I just _wished_.” They reach for a new dandelion, glancing at Fauntleroy as they do. “What are you wishing for? What do you wish was different?”

Fauntleroy looks at Jehan with slight dismay. No one _ever_ asks them things like that. Not even Bizarro, who is definitely the one that talks about this kind of stuff the most.

“I don’t know,” they mutter, letting themself slide down again to hide their face in the grass. They just want him to know that he’s important to them. More important than he realises. Sometimes they wish they could kiss him. Or hold his hand. But sometimes they just want to be able to smile at him and have him know what that means. “Be closer, I guess,” they say finally. “And…more.”

“More what?” Jehan smiles.

“Just more,” Fauntleroy says, a little helplessly.

Jehan hums sympathetically.

Fauntleroy feels a gentle pressure on their head and they smile when they feel dandelion petals brush past their forehead. They make an appreciative noise as Jehan gently arranges their hair around the flower crown, playing with their curls a bit more than strictly necessary.

“It’s stupid,” they sigh, glancing up at Jehan through a haze of yellow. “Because I used to want to be around him just because it was easy. It felt like I didn’t have to explain things to him, not nearly as much as with other people. Like he just understood.”

“Same vibes,” Jehan nods. “Same wavelength.” They smile. “That feels so good, doesn’t it, finding someone you only need to exchange half a word with for them to know what you mean.”

“Yes,” Fauntleroy says. “Yes, like that.”

They prop their head up on their fists, one on top of the other, while Jehan sinks back down to their elbows, nearly lying on their back but not quite.

“Is that what it felt like with Parnasse?” Fauntleroy asks them. They don’t actually know how Montparnasse and Jehan met, he’s very vague about it.

“A bit of that,” Jehan says with an odd sort of smile. “And a little dangerous.”

Fauntleroy smiles. Being with Claquesous doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels safe. Even when everything around them is dangerous he feels safe. And it _used_ to feel easy. They let their hands spread out flat and drop their head down, hiding their face in the grass with their forehead pressed against their fingers.

“You know,” Jehan muses. “There shouldn’t even be rules about this stuff. You could just tell him the small things. No big confession. Or not say anything at all, just show him, be with him more.”

“Mmm,” Fauntleroy hums towards the earth. They could try that. It’s certainly safer than actually trying to articulate the absolute mess of wants and wishes that they have tangled up inside them at the moment.

“Or I could ask Parnasse,” Jehan says. “I do think that if Sous—”

“Jehan,” Fauntleroy interrupts raising their head up off their hands and staring straight into their friend’s face. “You tell Montparnasse about this and I will end your mortal life.”

A startled, but genuine smile sparks in Jehan’s eyes. “No need to be like that,” they say.

“They wouldn’t even find your body, Prouvaire,” Fauntleroy says gravely. Montparnasse _cannot_ know about this. Jehan doesn’t know what he’s like when they’re not around. He wouldn’t tell Sous, but he’d make their life _hell_.

“Alright, alright,” Jehan surrenders. “My lips are sealed, on pain of death.”

“Thank you,” Fauntleroy grunts, dropping their head back towards the ground.

A short silence follows between them, filled with nothing but grass and sunshine and dandelions.

“You know,” Jehan breaks it amusedly. “You must be the only person capable of being threatening while wearing a flower crown.”

“I think—” Fauntleroy hums, closing their eyes and smiling slightly now the first fright of Jehan’s threat to tell on them is past. “—that if Parnasse were here, he’d tell you to look in a mirror sometime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them both, so much <3


	13. Snooping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: allusions to violence, but nothing compared to previous chapters.

“You call this hosting a party?”

Claquesous opens his eyes to the sight of Fauntleroy lingering in the doorway to his room. Their voice barely came through the music pouring from his headphones. He smirks and pulls one of the shells off his ear.

“Sounds like everyone’s having plenty of fun,” he remarks and the riotous noise coming from the living room is adequate testament to that.

They smile and take a slow step into his room. “Mind if I hang out with you for a bit?”

Claquesous studies their face. It’s strangely neutral. “Of course,” he says and he purposefully does not move from where he’s reclining against the headboard of his bed. “Shut the door?” he adds, making it just enough of a question to leave them the option not to.

They do shut the door, however, and without hesitation too. That’s alright then.

The sounds of the party are more muffled now and Fauntleroy smiles slightly as they turn away from the door. “Éponine made a bet with Mer she could get Brujon to let her cut his hair,” they say, walking softly towards the bed.

Claquesous pulls up his legs a little, but they sit down so far towards the end that he needn’t have. “Are there rules?” he asks.

“For the bet?” Fauntleroy asks amusedly. “What do you mean?”

“Is there a ban on flirting,” Claquesous clarifies.

Fauntleroy actually wrinkles their nose and Claquesous has to make a genuine effort to hide how much that amuses him.

“She _wouldn’t_ ,” they say.

“This is Éponine Thenardier we’re talking about,” he smirks. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Éponine can stay away from them all she likes, whenever she does come back, it never takes long for her true colours to start showing again.

Fauntleroy makes a faintly distressed noise and Claquesous lets his smirk grow into a grin. “Oh come on,” he teases deliberately. “As if I haven’t seen you make big eyes at security personnel until they were falling over themselves to find a lost purse for you.”

Their chests puffs up with flustered indignation. “That was _one_ time,” they splutter. “And only because they came out of nowhere!”

“Hmm,” Claquesous hums, thoroughly enjoying the embarrassment on their face. “You were _awfully_ good at it though.”

Fauntleroy kicks at his legs, half-amused, half-ruffled and Claquesous laughs. At their second try he catches their right ankle and pulls, making them slide nearly onto their back and laughingly try to pull themself free. Claquesous grins and tightens his grip, because he knows Faun would want him to. They’d be offended if he offered them no retaliation, that would be treating them like Gav or Azelma. They give a clever twist with their leg and Claquesous lets go before they force his hand.

“You know I had ten times rather pulled a knife on them,” Fauntleroy huffs, scrambling back into a seated position.

“And I would have watched you do that ten times rather as well,” he grins.

Fauntleroy laughs and they give him an affectionate nudge with their knee before scooting back to their original position. Claquesous could have put his hand on their knee to make them stay put, but he doesn’t. There’s such a vicious difference between touching someone because you want to and touching them because they want you to. It seems a very thin line sometimes, but it never is, not really.

And Fauntleroy jumps sometimes, when someone touches them uninvited. Just like they startle at suddenly raised voices. It’s barely visible, but it’s there, Claquesous has always been able to see it. It is the slightest, faintest flinch around their eyes and in their wrists. He remembers them doing exactly that when he tapped on their arm once to get their attention. They do it when Gueulemer is rough with them too, just before they start laughing and give him a kick or a punch in return for his jostling. Claquesous doesn’t like it. The laugh might make up for the flinch, but it can’t take it away.

There’s no flinching now though. Faun looks pleased and comfortable and they happily nudge against him again when he stretches out his legs.              

For a moment they sit in easy silence, save for the music only he can hear and the racket from outside, while Fauntleroy glances around the room. They’ve seen it before, it shouldn’t be particularly interesting to them.

“I like this,” they say suddenly and Claquesous looks up at them attentively. Occasionally they’ll say something with such an accent of earnest honesty that it nearly always takes him by surprise.

He likes this too. Them sitting close and looking at ease, as if they’d just as gladly be silent with him as talk to him. There’s so few people to be decently silent with. Claquesous supposes it comes with not being annoyed when they do speak.

At a loss for a proper answer he just nods in agreement and Fauntleroy smilingly goes back to inspecting the room. They take their time and after they’ve let their eyes pass over everything in plain sight, they slant their head to glance at him. There’s a very familiar glint in their eyes. That half-repressed, coaxing look that means he’s about to say yes to something whether he likes it or not.

“Can I snoop around?”

Claquesous’ mouth twitches. He might have known this was coming. “Do your worst,” he smirks.

“Dangerous answer,” they grin and they slide off the bed, going straight for the display cupboard with his masks.

He’s about to tell them not to open it, but they fold their hands on their back as soon as their reach it and he gladly swallows those words. He leans his head back and watches them admire his treasures. It’s a long while before they turn away from the masks in search of something new. When they do, they scurry through his room like the curious, brightly coloured creature they reminded Claquesous of the first time he met them.

They glance at him for a moment and he keeps his face neutral.

“What are you listening to?” they hum, peeking into his bookcase.

“Right now,” he says, watching them tilt their head to read the titles. “Muse.”

“You listen on shuffle?” Fauntleroy says, glancing back at him. “I would _not_ have thought that of you.”

He smirks. “I listen by genre.”

Fauntleroy gives a contemplative nod.

“Is that allowed?” he says with amused mockery.

“Just about,” they reply, eyes twinkling.

They go back to studying his shelves and Claquesous watches their progress, vaguely wondering what they’re looking for. Maybe they’re not looking for anything. He grins faintly to himself. There’s something he is sure they would _like_ to find, even if they’re not aware of it. He skips a song on his phone and waits patiently. Maybe they’ll manage to find it.

Claquesous hasn’t got a very particular taste in furniture, so the antique dresser rather stands out. Fauntleroy doesn’t open it though, either out of respect for his privacy or simple disinterest. It’s for clothes after all. Well, mostly clothes.

But by now he has made up his mind that he wants to show them, so when they’ve reached the other end of the room, he says leisurely:

“For as talented a burglar as I know you are you’re being a bit sloppy.”

Fauntleroy turns around immediately, narrowing their eyes at him. “Did I miss something good?” they ask, glancing back around the room.

He keeps his expression at a vague smirk. “Maybe.”

They stand very still, looking intently at every spot where they might have missed something.

“Surely we don’t need to play hot or cold,” Claquesous jeers pleasantly and Fauntleroy gives a soft hiss of contempt.

Suddenly their eye falls on the dresser and they make a frustrated sound. Claquesous lets out a soft laugh as they hurry over to it and feel around until they manage to slide out the shallow drawer hidden in the very top of it.

“ _There_ ,” Fauntleroy says triumphantly, but they immediately cut themselves short with a startled gasp of admiration.

That’s what Claquesous was waiting for.

“Oh,” they breathe and they look hastily up at him for a moment. “Oh, Sous…”

Claquesous grins and gets up off the bed, leaving his headphones behind. He comes to stand by their side and looks down into the drawer that houses the collection of his favourite knives. These aren’t for work – although by now he has used most of them – these he has just for the sheer pleasure of it. They are all, in their own way, beautiful, most of them rather old and some of them extremely valuable.

Fauntleroy snatches back the hand they involuntarily stretched out already. They look at him and Claquesous grins at the look of wild admiration on their face.

“May I?” they ask.

“How cruel do you think I am?” he grins and he gives an encouraging nod.

Fauntleroy makes a soft, pleased little sound that makes Claquesous slowly step away from them. When he lets himself turn his attention back on Fauntleroy again they have selected a dagger. One of his absolute favourites. Of course their taste can always be depended on.

Claquesous stands back, hands on his back like they had them a while ago, and watches them as they inspect the dagger from every angle.

They grip the handle firmly and hold their other palm outstretched behind the blade, admiring the curved symmetry. “Beautiful,” they sigh.

Claquesous refrains from giving a verbal reaction. The knife is not the only beauty. The way Fauntleroy handles knives has something artistic about it. He likes the way their eyes seem to widen and narrow at the same time, reflecting whatever light glints off the weapon they’re holding. Just like he likes the gentle, adoring attention they bestow on the hilt, handle and blade as they inspect it. And he _loves_ the ruthless manner in which all that gentleness falls away the moment their fingers wrap around the grip in earnest and their posture changes to a fighting stance. It’s on the large side for them, this blade, but they’re more than skilful enough to handle it all the same.

“Oh Sous,” they sigh again and this time there’s something just a touch fierce in their voice. They move the blade through the air a couple of times, graceful as a dancer. “I might have to steal this from you.”

“I’d have all the fingers off your right hand,” he threatens pleasantly.

They sigh.

“I’ll let you play with it some more though,” he says, as if that would be a hardship to him in any way. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” they ask and they don’t even look away from the knife.

“Tell me why you chose this one,” he says. He needs to know.

This time they do look up. There’s a single moment of silence and then Fauntleroy lets the full force of their professional estimation and personal preferences tumble from their lips. They don’t stop until Claquesous is full on grinning at them. Even then they keep going, but now while they do some more of those potentially deadly but right now dance-like movements to feel how the blade truly lies in their hand.

Claquesous watches and listens with equal enjoyment.

Fauntleroy gushing about knives puts even the classics to shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the /only/ chapter that (even after countless rehashing with my darling sister-beta) I feel isn't quite right. If any of you can tell me where the snag is, I'd be very grateful.
> 
> But even so, look at them, both trying so hard and still being on _completely_ different wavelenghts. Dumb darlings


	14. Interlude: Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: alcohol/drunkenness, injury, short instance of violence.

As far as Montparnasse is concerned, Claquesous has too much self-control. Not moderation, because once he has decided to do something Claquesous’ tastes and habits are barely less extravagant than his own. But that’s precisely it, it’s always a _decision_. He doesn’t like to just let go, not like Montparnasse does, and this translates into a rather boring unwillingness to drink more than a few drinks at the time. Montparnasse is too familiar with his friend’s weaknesses however and good whiskey is one of them.

They’re sitting on the roof of the building next to theirs, which is mostly flat and permanently neglected. They dragged a couple of chairs onto there ages ago – Montparnasse isn’t sitting on the ground if he can possibly avoid it – and they’ve never been taken away.

Gueulemer joined them about half an hour ago, complaining that he was dying of boredom at home. He injured his hand a few days ago, a stupid mistake involving a badly cut mesh fence, and he’s still waiting for it to heal up.

It’s been a while since the last time it was just the three of them and even longer since they were just drinking and talking shit, instead of out somewhere picking fights or damaging property. Montparnasse is rather enjoying himself.

Claquesous has had the better part of three glasses of whiskey and he’s draped in his chair, listening to Gueulemer rattle away with a permanently amused expression. He’s not wearing his mask either, which reminds Montparnasse of something.

“Long time since you’ve been out,” he remarks to Claquesous when Gueulemer shuts up for a moment to refill his glass.

Claquesous sneers at him. “If you want time alone with Jehan you can just tell me to fuck off for a bit.”

Gueulemer chuckles.

“What makes you think I don’t enjoy an audience,” Montparnasse drawls, making Claquesous grimace and Gueulemer cough into his glass. “No, just an objective observation.” He leans back, taking in Claquesous slightly disgruntled expression. It would probably be good for him if he went out again. Actually go out. Somewhere where no one knows him. Somewhere where he’ll go without his mask. Of course they used to do that together, but ever since he met Jehan…

“Ask Faun to take him out,” Gueulemer grins. He smirks through his next draught of whiskey. “You’ll have the night to yourself for sure.”

Montparnasse stills with his glass against his lips. He should really stop underestimating Gueulemer’s perceptiveness.

Claquesous’ posture, meanwhile, has grown dangerously tense. “What is _that_ supposed to mean,” he bites.

“Oh come on,” Gueulemer chuckles, grey eyes twinkling merrily. “Every time they take out a knife you look as if you’d like to have ‘em up against a wall t— _Jesus fuck!_ ”

He recoils violently from where Claquesous just brought his empty glass down viciously hard on his injured hand, which had been resting on the armrest of his chair.

“You fucking _bastard_ ,” he gasps, clutching his wrist.

“Points for subtlety to the both of you,” Montparnasse says airily, but he has one hand half-raised to grab Claquesous’ arm, just in case he’ll actually reach for his knife. There _is_ a reason his friend is such an awful control-freak. When Sous _loses_ control, it’s never pretty.

“Next time I rip open your stitches,” Claquesous hisses. His face is blank, but there’s something unhinged behind his eyes that Montparnasse doesn’t see too often anymore.

“Feels like you just bloody did,” Gueulemer groans, glaring at Claquesous. “Fucking hell, learn to take a joke.”

“Go get some ice for you hand, Mer,” Montparnasse orders coolly.

Gueulemer opens his mouth and Montparnasse looks at him. He shuts his mouth and gets up, muttering resentfully under his breath. Montparnasse waits until he has climbed onto the other roof before he sits back again to look at Claquesous. He still looks angry.

“Babet will be pissed at you if you really did damage his stitches,” Montparnasse remarks, sipping on his drink.

“I didn’t,” Claquesous says, still ill-tempered but a little less tense. “They’ve been in for too long.”

Montparnasse hums. “Want a refill?” he offers.

“No,” Claquesous says flatly and he puts the glass down on the concrete with a dull clink.

An unstable silence falls between them and Montparnasse weighs his options. If he doesn’t say something now that’s a fair chance badly missed. Claquesous is sure as hell never going to bring it up again, that much is clear.

Well, every now and again honesty is actually worth something. “I thought you didn’t know,” he says.

Claquesous looks at him with mocking incredulity. “How would I not know?” he says resentfully. “Course I fucking know.”

Montparnasse isn’t entirely sure whether he’s angry with himself by now, or still pissed at Gueulemer. He did do a marvellous job of picking exactly the right thing to say to set Sous off. Especially considering Faun is… Actually, Montparnasse isn’t exactly sure what they are. Not the kind of person either he or Sous would be interested in when going out at least. But then again, neither is Jehan. And Jehan… He turns his face to hide a smile.

Faun is like Jehan in some ways though. Romantic. Soft with surprising edges. Jehan had taken him by surprise. Who’s to say Faun wouldn’t do the same for Sous.

“If Faun—” he begins, but Claquesous’ eyes dart to his with a definite refusal.

“Don’t.”

Montparnasse grimaces. Alright then. He shuts his mouth.

Pity.

“This is not about me, it’s about them,” Claquesous says curtly.

“Okay,” Montparnasse says, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. Well, he did predict this would be a mess. Maybe Claquesous is doing the right thing. Perhaps Gueulemer, crude as he may be, isn’t too far off about Claquesous’ feelings. Montparnasse isn’t at all convinced that is the whole of it, but he can imagine it is a substantial part of it. And that would be a problem, wouldn’t it. Not just because of the disinclination for that sort of stuff Montparnasse suspects on Fauntleroy’s side, but also because Claquesous doesn’t fuck around with his friends. Montparnasse knows that for a fact, because he tried back when they first met.

Montparnasse shakes off his thoughts to glance at Claquesous again. He’s staring stubbornly up at the sky.

The persistent silence between them would have been uncomfortable it if was anyone other than Claquesous, but it is, so it isn’t. Still. This is all far too serious for Montparnasse’s taste. He lets his head slant to the side and nudges Claquesous chair with his foot until his friend looks at him. Sous doesn’t look as nettled now, so Montparnasse goes ahead and says teasingly:

“At least tell me it wasn’t just the knives.”

“Fuck off,” Claquesous gripes, but there’s just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Montparnasse grins at him. “That wasn’t quite a contradiction.”

They’re interrupted by the rather noisy return of Gueulemer, who has helped himself to a bag of crisps. From the way he’s stuffing his face, his hand can’t be bothering him too much anymore.

“How’s your mortal injury?” Claquesous asks sweetly as Gueulemer walks past him.

“Jerk,” Gueulemer glares and he chucks a handful of crisps at Claquesous, making him splutter and angrily get up to shake them out of his clothes.

Gueulemer sits down heavily in his chair, already grinning again. Montparnasse silently holds out his hand for the crisps and wrinkles his nose at Gueulemer when he tries to give him a handful instead of the bag.

“Fussy,” Gueulemer grunts, stuffing the crisps in his mouth instead and tossing Montparnasse the bag.

“God, you eat like an animal,” Claquesous drawls, suddenly moving to refill or top up all their glasses.

“You try to wash that garbage down with this and I will hurt you again,” he warns darkly, handing Gueulemer his glass.

Montparnasse looks at the night’s sky and smiles. Gueulemer is already slowly raising the glass to his crumb-covered lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you tried Parnasse~
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	15. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: violence, blood, injury.

“Why not send Mer though?”

Fauntleroy glances at Babet from behind the glass of lemonade they’re stirring. They don’t mind being sent out alone with Claquesous, it’s actually a little embarrassing how pleased the thought makes them, but they’d like to know why.

“Gueulemer is immediately perceived as a threat, even on his own,” Babet says, leaning on the kitchen table.

“And Sous isn’t?” Fauntleroy hums. People are so incredibly stupid.

“Different kind of threat,” Babet says. He gestures at them. “And if you’re with him even less so.” A slow grin spreads across his thin face. “They’ll never suspect you of being a proper second to him. At most they’ll think he’s there to protect you while you do the talking, more likely they’ll guess you’re just tagging along to be shown the ropes.” He grins a little wider. “Always a good thing to be underestimated.”

Fauntleroy smirks. The Patron-Minette had underestimated them too. Those days are long gone now, but they haven’t forgotten. They haven’t forgotten Claquesous was the first to drop that prejudice either.

“So you want me to go with Sous to meet this guy because it will make him think we really only want to talk?” they say. “And then what?”

Babet’s expression hardens for a moment. He detests people that do not keep their word and he makes sure his associates only ever make that mistake once. Everyone gets exactly one warning. That’s what Claquesous is supposed to do tonight. Fauntleroy knows that, but they don’t much like the idea of being nothing but a misdirection.

“Then,” Babet says deliberately, “ _you_ make sure Sous does what he came for without getting hurt and that you both get out of there again in good time.” He grins faintly at them. “Like a proper second.”

Fauntleroy sips on their drink. They can see there’s something Babet is holding back. “You think Sous might go too far?”

Babet gives them an impenetrable look.

“So _that’s_ why you don’t want to send Montparnasse with him,” Fauntleroy says, narrowing their eyes slightly in triumph. Montparnasse and Claquesous work together brilliantly, it’s wonderful to watch them at it, but they definitely make each other worse.

“Parnasse doesn’t exactly like this guy,” Babet admits.

He was right not to, Fauntleroy thinks privately. Greedy piece of shit.

“And Sous…let’s just say I’ve told him to stay away from weaponry this time and I’d like you to keep an eye on that as well.”

Fair enough. “Alright,” Fauntleroy hums and they look up at Babet’s almost permanently weary face. “So I’m to look harmless, let Sous do the beating and get us both out of there again before Sous has a little too much fun.”

The grin flickers back onto Babet’s face. “Perfect.” He pulls a face. “And maybe make sure that little moron got the message, Sous tends to forget to talk when he’s working with his hands.”

“I think I can manage that,” Fauntleroy grins.

…

It’s dawning on Fauntleroy that they might have misunderstood Babet’s meaning when he said “working with his hands”.

It’s not until they have allowed Babet’s new associate to lead the two of them into a very large and conveniently mostly empty building, that Fauntleroy realises they have never seen Claquesous fight without his blades. It’s only when he abruptly cuts off the guys blabbering by driving him into a corner that the novelty of it fully strikes them.

They’ve never seen him work with just his fists before and Fauntleroy has to admit that they weren’t quite prepared.

He doesn’t rely on pure strength like Glorieux or Gueulemer. Doesn’t taunt and dance around like Brujon. There’s a precision to his movements that mirrors the way he uses his knives. He’s looking for specific spots to hurt, very particular blows to land. Fauntleroy would almost have described it as having an air of efficiency, if it hadn’t been for the pauses. Long, lingering pauses during which they can hear Claquesous’ quickened breathing echo in their ears and in which he waits for his increasingly unbalanced opponent to get up and try to compose himself. There’s an unmistakable element of play to it. Raw and animalistic.

Fauntleroy’s heart is beating to a wild, dancing rhythm. For a moment, looking at the two pairs of feet, one stumbling, one poised, it really does look like a dance. Then the next blow hits and it isn’t anymore.

The man goes down, curling in on himself with a gagging sound deep in his chest, and he doesn’t try to get back up again. He should definitely still be able to, but he doesn’t.

Claquesous makes a contemptuous sound and reaches out for him, one gloved hand outstretched, the other pulled back, first already raised again.

Fauntleroy braces themself. “That’s enough.”

Their voice rings out clear and steady, but as calm and composed as they’ve willed themselves to be, there is still an odd sort of thrill deep in their stomach when Claquesous looks back at them. He’s breathing heavily behind his mask, but all they can see is his eyes, dark and just a touch reluctant.

“That’s enough,” Fauntleroy repeats and they feel that distant thrill again when Claquesous gives a nearly obedient inclination of the head and steps back.

Fauntleroy glances at their target. He is looking between the two of them in confusion, frantic eyes trying to figure out what this new development means. Fauntleroy feels a sneer form on their face. Did he really think they were only there to watch? They clench their teeth and turn the sneer into a mockery of a smile. With composed little steps they walk towards where he’s lying half-crouched on the floor. Their footsteps are eerily soft on the painted concrete and for the first time since their arrival the foolish new recruit directs his full attention towards them instead of Claquesous. His eyes dart up to their face and Fauntleroy can pinpoint the _exact_ moment he begins thinking about what it might mean that they just gave an order that Claquesous obeyed. They walk slowly, giving him plenty of time to settle on the worst possible scenario. By the time they reach him, his entire body is taut with the fearfully paralyzed wish to flee.

_Good._

Fauntleroy lets the icy smile slip from their lips and stares down at the frightened face. It’s surprisingly unblemished, but there is blood running from his nose. Slowly, nearly nonchalantly, Fauntleroy reaches into the inside pocket of their jacket.

“ _Don’t_ —” the man splutters, flinching at the sudden sharp movement of their hand as they reach towards him.

“Don’t what?” Fauntleroy says lightly. “Come here.”

He scrambles away from them frantically and Fauntleroy has to fight down their grin. They turn their hand, showing him the tissue they just plucked out of its packet. The man stares at it with wide-eyed suspicion and Fauntleroy tuts chidingly at him.

“Having some trust issues, are we?” they singsong, holding the tissue out to him, waiting with sharply pointed patience for him to take it. “You should really work on that.”

Fauntleroy can feel Claquesous watching, all his attention intently on them. It’s a very odd feeling, having him stand back and while they take the lead. They rather like it.

Finally, anxiously silent and with shaking, cramped fingers, the man takes the tissue from their gloved hand. It takes him a moment to actually raise it to his bleeding nose and even when he does, he barely dares to look away from Fauntleroy’s face.

It really is remarkable how few directly visible injuries he has. Claquesous must have done that on purpose. Fauntleroy wonders whether that was as per Babet’s instruction or not. They must remember to ask him about that later.

They straighten up, drawing themself up to a height that is considerably taller than they actually are. They are still looking down on him, keeping a stilted little smile on their lips all the while.

The man swallows, fear still twisting on his now mostly clean face.

Fauntleroy slants their head at him. “You’ll hear from Babet soon,” they says sweetly. “I advise you to think of something nice to say.”

He doesn’t answer.

Fauntleroy narrows their eyes.

“Yes—” the man croaks. “—I will.” The terror on his face while he was fighting Claquesous is nothing compared to what it is now.

“Good.” Fauntleroy turns around to see Claquesous still watching them intently. They almost break out in a genuine smile, but just manage not to. “Then I think we’re done here.”

They turn around and walk away with quiet steps, Claquesous immediately following them a single pace behind, as if they ordered him to do so. Fauntleroy feels a giddy sort of pride dancing somewhere in their chest and somehow it gets stronger when they hear him breathing behind them, still slightly heavier than normal.

At the end of the next corridor they slow down though, waiting for him to actually catch up, and he does, with the sound of a breathy chuckle behind his mask.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” he hums and Fauntleroy hears that darkly pleasant sound in his voice they’ve come to associate particularly with how he is just after a job gone right.

“Whatever gave you that idea,” Fauntleroy grins and Claquesous makes an amused and highly approving sound that that makes them grin a little wider.

They both hurry to get back into the fresh air, but before they make it quite out of the building, Fauntleroy spots a flash of red on Claquesous’ tinted skin. “Shit, Sous,” they hiss, putting a hand on his arm. “There’s blood running out from under your mask.”

“Is there?” Claquesous says, sounding mildly surprised and slowing his step. He stops walking entirely and pulls off one of his gloves

There is just a hint of red dripping down the curve of his jaw, thinned with sweat. Fauntleroy is not exactly worried, it can’t be that bad if he didn’t even feel it, but they still feel a faint jolt when Claquesous retracts the hand he slipped under his mask and his fingers are stained with red.

“So there is,” he says, completely unconcerned. “Good for him.” He glances down the corridor. “We have a moment, you reckon?”

“Sure,” Fauntleroy says. They terrified the crap out of that idiot, it’s not like he’s coming after them.

They watch Claquesous pull off his mask and because there is still plenty of adrenaline humming through their veins to bypass their usual bashfulness, they just lean back against the wall and enjoy the view. They don’t like seeing their friends hurt, of course, but Sous isn’t _hurt_. He just has that purposefully dishevelled look he always has just after a job. His eyes are just a bit brighter, his hair messy with sweat, his colour is heightened, making it look almost like a blush on his cheek and one corner of his mouth is smeared with blood. Paired with that self-satisfied expression on his face it’s…well, they like it is all.

“Knocked my mask into my teeth I expect,” Claquesous hums, pulling out a proper cloth handkerchief. “Cut my lip up a bit.” He wipes the blood off his mouth and chin and gives Fauntleroy a grin that makes them grin back.

“If I’d known you were going to have a go at that poor sod as well, I might have stopped sooner,” he smirks. “Fuck, you’re terrifying.” And for a moment both his voice and expression are so thickly laced with affection that Fauntleroy feels their breath lock in their chest for a second.

It flits by in an instant and Claquesous puts his mask back on. They continue to make their way outside, pausing two streets away to text Babet that everything went well. Fauntleroy watches Claquesous pull up his hood as they tuck their phone back into their pocket. Like this the mask nearly falls away in the shadows, looking almost like it might be his real face. They expect him to say goodbye, since Babet doesn’t need them to come to his, they might as well both go home directly, but instead he slants his head to look at them.

“You like to walk a bit after a job, right?” he says.

Fauntleroy nods. They’re not really one for going out for drinks after something like this – they know that’s what Montparnasse and Gueulemer do sometimes – but if Sous asked them they would.

“I also like to bother Bizarro a bit,” they say, hardly knowing why. “Sometimes it’s nice to not be alone, after.” That isn’t quite right. Usually they do like to be alone right after and then _later_ they want company. But that’s a little complicated right now and all they want is for Sous to know that if—

Claquesous turns towards their direction of the street, sticking both hands in his pockets. “Shall I walk you home then?”

Fauntleroy smiles so broadly at the pavement under their feet that they nearly feel their cheeks protest at it. “Sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting rather close to the end, aren't we...


	16. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: blood, serious injury, anxiety, mention of gun violence, probably the darkest instalment in this piece.

Tonight did not go as planned. And that is an understatement.

Glorieux got hurt. Badly. And Gueulemer, who’s in a pretty sorry state himself, is furious about it. It took both Claquesous and Montparnasse to get him to calm down enough that Babet would even let him near Glorieux. The three of them have been shut up in Babet’s kitchen for at least an hour now. Babet trying to fix up Glorieux and Gueulemer refusing to let anyone look at him until his friend is no longer bleeding all over the kitchen table.

Since Gueul is still just about capable of being useful to Babet and Babet can’t stand people staring at him work, the rest of them have been banned to the living room. None of them are hurt so badly that they need medical attention. Bruises and contusions that will probably make moving hell tomorrow, but nothing worse. Claquesous is pretty sure Montparnasse is worse off than him, because he’s not lounging in his chair with his usual effortless elegance. He’s been staring at nothing for the past half hour, not quite asleep, not quite awake.

Fauntleroy, meanwhile, really has fallen asleep. Curled up on Babet’s couch, still in their clothes, but with their shoes kicked off. They tried, but they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open.

Claquesous is leaning against the armrest of the couch. He hasn’t sat down properly since they arrived. While his friends dozed he’s been listening to the muffled voices and painful noises from the other room.

They’re all used to getting hurt. It generally gets on Claquesous’ nerves more if they go a long time without a scrape. He’s not superstitious, but he knows the odds and he doesn’t trust in luck. Still…this is a bad one. Claquesous is waiting for the sounds of Babet calling one of his old friends for help. The last time he had to do that was when Printanier got shot. He made it, but he never worked with them again.

Not that Claquesous wasn’t secretly glad to be rid of the old git, but—

There is a faint noise beside him and Claquesous glances over at Fauntleroy. They are frowning, but still sound asleep. Claquesous silently searches for signs of their discomfort, but they don’t stir again and the frown slowly fades from their brow.

With his thoughts wandering slightly, Claquesous looks at them a little longer.

There is a great deal about Fauntleroy that he finds particularly attractive. He noticed that the first time he met them, and getting to know them better hasn’t changed that. Their features are not quite conventional, but so delicate. And they look oddly endearing like this, curled up on their side. The way their purple curls fall in front of their face is rather inviting.

But he isn’t like Montparnasse, unable to keep his hands off anything pretty that catches his eye, so Claquesous turns away again, glancing at the firmly shut door to the kitchen. He does not glance at Montparnasse to check if his friend saw him looking. It does not matter either way. Montparnasse knows to keep his mouth shut about this. Just like he knows that Claquesous does not intend to do anything with…whatever this is.

He was never like Montparnasse, or at least like how Montparnasse used to be, before he met his little poet. Never good at that odd way of mixing the physical with the emotional and then disentangle them again without a moment’s consideration. It’s neater to keep them separate completely. When it comes to dealing with Fauntleroy there’s no chance of separating anything. And would it be worth the risk? Claquesous knows the odds. And he doesn’t like them.

Silently he gets to his feet and walks towards the kitchen, past Montparnasse whose eyes have really closed by now. It is unusually quiet behind the door and Claquesous is fed up with waiting.

A sudden, anxious sound calls him back just as he is about to turn the door handle. When he turns around Fauntleroy is moving on the couch, their hand is reaching around under the rolled up blanket they’re using as a pillow with instinctual, searching movements. But they’re not home, there’s nothing there. Claquesous knows Faun keeps a knife tucked away between the matrass and the headboard of their bed. He walks back and leans over them, expecting them to wake, but their eyes are screwed shut and they’re making nigh inaudible noises at the back of their throat.

“Faun,” Claquesous mutters and after a moment’s hesitation he shakes them gently. “Faun.”

Fauntleroy’s head jerks up and they stare at him with sleep-filled eyes. “Sous?”

“Yes,” he says. “We’re at Babet’s.”

One of Faun’s hands has closed around his arm and they’re staring at him with an unfocussed look that clearly indicates they aren’t truly awake. They look scared, or sad, either way it’s making something irrational scratch at a corner of Claquesous’ mind.

“Are you—”

Before he can finish Fauntleroy shifts their weight, trying to sit up, but wobbling with exhaustion, they pull heavily on his arm and Claquesous sits down next to them because it’s all he can think to do right now. He doesn’t know whether something’s genuinely wrong or if they’re just disoriented from sleeping in an unknown environment.

Claquesous nearly winces when Fauntleroy’s fingers dig painfully into his arm. They’re barely staying upright but their body is tensing up like they’re about to fight.

“Fauntleroy, we’re at Babet’s,” Claquesous repeats with emphasis, making Montparnasse blink awake in his chair.

Fauntleroy’s eyes fix on him again and this time the look in them is more focussed. Their grip on his arm lessens as they wake up fully and as soon as comprehension dawns on their face their cheeks flush scarlet. They let go of him and shift their weight so they are no longer leaning against him.

“Did— Did I fall asleep on you?” they ask embarrassedly.

Claquesous feels himself almost smile. “No,” he says. “I woke you, that’s all.”

They nod without looking at him and glance at Montparnasse who is watching the two of them silently, alert, as if he was never asleep in the first place.

“Don’t sleep well in strange places?” Claquesous hums, keeping his voice neutral. Fauntleroy is still sitting very close to him, but they’re also sitting very still.

“I— Yeah,” they mutter. They lift their head up again. “Is Glorieux going to be okay?”

“That sounds an awful lot like doubting my abilities,” Babet’s voice comes suddenly from the kitchen doorway. “Of course he is.”

Claquesous feels a pang of relief and Montparnasse blows out a noisy breath. Babet’s face is strained and the shadows under his eyes are three shades darker than they used to be, but there’s also a grim triumph in the lines on his face.

“He’s definitely staying here for a bit though,” he continues, walking further into the room. “Which means, I suppose—” With faint derision to his voice. “—that Mer is as well.”

“Patched him up too?” Claquesous asks, he can just hear hushed voices coming from the kitchen, but nothing distinguishable.

Babet nods. “Lot less work,” he grunts. He glances around at the three of them. “Now. If any more of you are walking around with injuries you didn’t fucking tell me about, I’m taking your damn back teeth as payment before fixing you up.”

“Gee, thanks Dad,” Montparnasse drawls, but Fauntleroy mutters softly:

“We’re all fine, Babet.” And for a moment Babet looks like he’s swallowing something down.

“Good,” he grunts hoarsely. “Now go and see your moron friends if you like.”

They do, and Gueulemer almost looks bad enough for Claquesous not to want to give him shit for getting hurt. Almost. So he rips on him anyway, if only to cover up for the fact that none of them know what to say to the exhausted Glorieux. And maybe he plays it up just a little so Fauntleroy will speak up in compensation. But that’s how it always is after things go wrong. Faun expresses concern while he and Montparnasse bitch, that’s how it works. That’s normal. Much more normal than the way Fauntleroy seems to be unwilling to look at him right now.

It fades though, as the night wears on, and after careful consideration Claquesous decides to forget about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Two can play at the pain game, Jane~~
> 
>  
> 
> Don't worry, in a couple days Glorieux will be making a nuisance of himself being bored out of his mind while recovering and all shall be restored to normalcy.


	17. Interlude: Yarn

In general Montparnasse is not inclined to be bothered by anything while he is sprawled out on the couch with Jehan in his arms, but at the moment he is frowning slightly. Frowning at something that is making Jehan smile no less.

Fauntleroy and Claquesous are sitting on the other end of the living room, Fauntleroy digging through a box of old yarn they found at a  _vide-grenier_  and Claquesous passively allowing them to hand him the worst of the tangled up bits so he can unravel them. His expression is one of tried patience, but his exasperation is fond and not a single protest has passed his lips, even though Fauntleroy has been at this for more than fifteen minutes.

They both watch as Fauntleroy holds out two pieces of what looks like unfinished knitting that are tied together at two tangled ends.

Claquesous’ hand moves and suddenly there is the glint of a blade slicing through the knot. The knife disappears as fast as it appeared and Montparnasse hears Fauntleroy protest:

“I didn’t mean for you to  _cut_ it, I could have done that myself!”

“Then you should have,” Claquesous replies. “Surely you don’t want to finish those…whatever they are, they look awful.”

“I don’t really know what they’re supposed to be,” Fauntleroy agrees doubtfully

“Let me see.” Claquesous catches the end of the threat he just cut and pulls on it, halfway unravelling most of the piece. “Looks like yarn.”

“Sous!”

“Now you can make something better out of it.”

“It’s all curled, I can’t crochet with this,” Fauntleroy contradicts.

“Make something curly.”

Montparnasse scowls slightly and leans his chin against the top of Jehan’s head, as they rest it comfortably against his chest. It feels like he’s looking at something temporarily stable but potentially explosive. It really is beginning to get a bit threatening, this whole thing. Because he knows Sous made up his mind and he seems to be holding it together pretty well, but lately… Lately it almost seems like it’s Fauntleroy that is changing their behaviour. They’re certainly developing a habit of dropping by on very short notice, like they did today, and the way they behave around Claquesous is – and it annoys Montparnasse to no end that he cannot pinpoint exactly what it is – just a little different.

The fact that he isn’t filming any of this nonsense to send to Gueulemer is proof enough of how unnerving it’s becoming. Not that Mer would look at it probably, Montparnasse considers. He and Glorieux are off to god knows where blowing off some steam.

Montparnasse sighs slightly and Jehan nestles a little closer against him in response, but he can tell they are still slyly watching his friends. Well,  _their_  friends, he supposes. Montparnasse is watching too, but he also takes the opportunity of slipping a hand under Jehan’s shirt to stroke their lower back. He does have his priorities.

Jehan breathes out a pleased little sound and Montparnasse fights down a smile.

“Well at least hold it so I can wind it up again,” Fauntleroy insists on the other end of the room.

“Next time you run out of damn yarn remind me to just get you some new stuff.”

“ _You_  turned it into this mess.”

“It was a mess when you brought it in here.”

Montparnasse grimaces slightly, but Jehan laughs softly against his chest.

“They’re cute together,” they mutter warmly.

By now Claquesous is holding up the tangle of yarn and doing a rather bad job of hiding the enjoyment he gets from Fauntleroy’s huffing as they begin winding it up.

Montparnasse makes a vague, nondescript noise. ‘Cute’ is not the word  _he_ would use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more quiet moment before the finale.
> 
> <3


	18. Goodbyes

Parties are nice, but Fauntleroy likes their lazy nights of uselessly hanging about together best of all. Tonight is pretty close to perfect as far as they are concerned.

“Euch, go have your foreplay somewhere else,” Gueulemer gripes, stepping over Montparnasse’s outstretched legs. Jehan is sitting on his lap, wrapped as much around him as the armchair they’re sharing will allow, and currently gleefully employed in running their fingers through his dark hair.

“What was that, Mer?” Montparnasse says meaningfully and there is a loud squeak from Jehan as Montparnasse puts his teeth to the back of their neck. It’s not at all an unhappy squeak though and Montparnasse gladly changes from muttering into their ear as he had been doing before, to softly kissing their neck and tugging teasingly on their hair.

“Very effective,” Claquesous snorts at Gueulemer.

“Right in my goddamn living room,” Gueulemer spits, snatching a fresh beer off the table.

“You kind of asked for that one,” Fauntleroy says. They are comfortably stretched out on the couch, their legs draped across Claquesous’ lap, who’s sitting on the other end.

“Kind of did,” Jehan agrees, wriggling slightly out of Montparnasse’s embrace so they can look around.

Gueulemer gives them a dirty look for their trouble.

They bat their eyes at him sweetly. “And I’m sure Glorieux will be here soon and then you don’t have to mope anymore.”

Fauntleroy chokes back a snort and they feel Claquesous move with repressed laughter as Gueulemer chucks a cushion at Jehan.

“You shut your freckled mug,” Gueulemer threatens and for a moment something nasty flickers in the green of Montparnasse’s eyes before Jehan jeers laughingly:

“But Mer—”

“ _Shut it_.”

“Aww,” Jehan pouts, pink with cheerfulness and white wine. “But we’d all be so nicely paired off.”

Montparnasse chuckles, but Fauntleroy feels a nasty jolt in their stomach. They do look like two couples. Almost at least. Montparnasse and Jehan in their chair and Claquesous and them on the couch. They’ve been sitting like this for an hour at least, Faun realises, maybe more even. There’s a sour taste at the back of their mouth all of the sudden and they swallow it down resignedly.

“What you _could_ do,” they say, looking meaningfully at Gueulemer, while nonchalantly drawing up their legs so they’re no longer trapping Claquesous. “Instead of throwing things— is make us all some food and then give nothing to Jehan.”

“You _traitor_ ,” Jehan gasps.

“Nice try,” Gueulemer snorts, grinning at Fauntleroy. “I’m not your bloody hostess.”

“Like I don’t stuff you with food every time you come over,” Fauntleroy says indignantly. They slide all the way down on the couch, trying to get close enough to where Gueulemer is sitting to nudge him with their foot. “Come on, feed me.”

“Better humour them, Mer,” Claquesous says. “They’re as bad-tempered as you when they’re hungry.”

“Excuse you,” Fauntleroy huffs and they try to glare at Claquesous, but his masked face is turned towards the ceiling. “ _No_ one is as bad as Gueulemer when he’s hungry.” They get to their feet and catch Gueulemer by the wrist, their hand just failing to reach all the way around. “Come on. I’ll help, but I’m not navigating your mess of a kitchen alone.”

Gueulemer allows himself to be dragged off his chair and Montparnasse and Jehan see fit to put in requests that he gives very rude replies to as Fauntleroy pulls him to the kitchen. They still feel a little jittery and they’re glad to hide their face in the kitchen cupboards while looking for a mixing bowl.

They shouldn’t have freaked out just because of a joke. Jehan certainly didn’t mean anything by it. And what the hell are they on about, Sous is more than capable of pushing their legs off his lap if they were bothering him. And he didn’t. So he didn’t mind. Fauntleroy wrinkles their nose for a moment before crouching down to grab the desired bowl from one of the lower cabinets. Claquesous likes it when they get close to him. They’re certain of that. They really are. At least, on good days they are certain of it. But they don’t really know why, or how close, and that’s what makes this all so difficult. They’ve been spending much more time together lately though, and it’s been so much fun. If only he talked a little more.

Fauntleroy bites their lip. Well, that takes two, doesn’t it. They drag themselves back upright.

“What’d you think of crêpes?” they ask, glancing up at Gueulemer.

“That’s Glor’s department,” Gueulemer mutters uncertainly. “But if you’re baking, hell yes.”

Fauntleroy smiles. “Shall I ask Sous to come and help us?” they say. “Give Jehan and Parnasse some proper make-out time.”

Gueulemer makes a gagging sound, but he’s almost grinning through it and Fauntleroy cheerfully puts the bowl down and walks back to the living room.

Jehan is no longer sitting on Montparnasse’s lap, they’re standing by the window, and Claquesous is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Sous?” Fauntleroy asks, surprised. Montparnasse turns to look at them.

“Just left,” he says, his voice very even.

Jehan turns their back on the window, but they don’t say anything.

“What?” Fauntleroy protests. “Why?”

“Wanted to go home,” Montparnasse shrugs.

Fauntleroy closes their mouth. The look Jehan is giving them is far too concerned and they refuse to look back at them for fear of showing them how upset they are. How unreasonably upset.

Montparnasse gets to his feet. “If you still had something to say to him, you better go after him,” he says, in that same smooth but even tone of voice. “You might still catch him. If he hasn’t done one of his disappearing acts.”

At no point does Fauntleroy remember making the decision to put on their coat and run after him. All they know is that they’re suddenly hurrying down the badly lit street, rather accusingly calling Sous’ name.

Claquesous turns around with a start, but although he is clearly looking at them Fauntleroy can’t see anything of his face and just this once that pisses them off even more.

“What are you leaving for all of a sudden?” they demand, slowing their step for the last few metres and looking up at him with all their feelings in an unexamined jumble and nearly blocking their throat.

He shrugs and doesn’t say a word.

But Fauntleroy doesn’t know what to say either. Nor do they know what to do. All they know is that they’re having their throat squeezed shut with some kind of unreasonable anger that might make them cry if they drop it.

They stare at him.

Finally, very slowly, Claquesous asks: “Are you upset because I left, or because of something else?”

It’s a genuine question. Not a trace of mockery in it. The tilt of his head just allows Fauntleroy to see the part of his face that isn’t deliberately covered. They feel their shoulders sag.

“It’s just—” they mutter. “You didn’t even say goodnight.”

He gives them a strange look. “Sorry…”

Fauntleroy can tell he means it, but he also looks…doubtful. Like he’s wholly unsure of what to do with them right now. They’re expecting too much of him. They’re not being fair.

“Don’t be,” they say and they raise their head with a carefully composed smile. “I hadn’t expected you to leave so suddenly, that’s all. All I wanted was to say goodnight.” They take in a small breath. “So, goodnight.”

He hasn’t moved at all and he’s still looking at them. “Are you going back up, or home?” he asks after a short silence.

That decision hadn’t even crossed their mind yet, but they answer “Home,” before they’ve really thought about it. It’s not like they’ll be good company now anymore anyway.

Claquesous’ mouth moves as if he’s hesitating to say something and then he asks: “Would you like me to walk you home?”

Fauntleroy feels a smile quiver on their lips. They have never said no when he asks them that. Not once. And it always sounds slightly like something out of a movie. Something romantic. They swallow. “You don’t have to walk me home, Sous,” they say softly.

He’s looking at them intently, seriously. “I will though, if you let me,” he says.

Fauntleroy lets the smile through. “Yes,” they say. “I’d like that.”

“Alright.” With nearly languid steps Claquesous moves to their side and they cross the street together.

The tangle blocking their throat has faded, but Fauntleroy doesn’t feel up to talking yet. Not that they have to. Not with Claquesous. Not even after they clearly startled him so. He walks next to them with his hands in his pockets in comfortable silence.

He’s still the first one to speak though. When the moon makes an appearance from behind the clouds.

“Is it waning or waxing tonight?”

Fauntleroy smiles. “Waxing again,” they say.

“Remind me, that was good, right?” There’s repressed amusement to his voice and Fauntleroy knows they are humouring him when they answer:

“They are both good. Waning moon for getting rid of the old. Waxing moon for growing the new.”

He hums pleasantly and they walk on in silence a while longer, but now Fauntleroy feels lighter. They smile quietly to themself, wondering how the two of them look right now, walking side by side. The streets they’re passing through are far from safe, but they know them too well and, more importantly, the people around here know them.

Fauntleroy makes a content sound at the back of their throat and they can tell Claquesous has heard it from the way he tilts his head back for a second.

When they’ve nearly reached their street Fauntleroy slows their step a little. They don’t think Brujon or Bizarro will be home and they wish they could think of a reasonable excuse to ask Sous to come up with them. For a moment they consider asking him if he’s hungry. Their own appetite seems to have faded in the rapid jumble of feelings. They decide against it.

As they turn the corner and their building comes into view they vaguely consider that Gueulemer is probably pretty miffed they didn’t end up making crêpes. Well, they’ll make that up to him some other time.

“Thanks for the walk,” they smile, looking up at Claquesous.

He nods in steady silence and Fauntleroy adds earnestly:

“I always love walking with you.”

This time he makes a soft sound in reply that might be a muttered “Good,” but might also just be a wordless agreement.

They’re nearly in front of their building now and for a few steps Claquesous seems to slow down, but then he slants his head at them in a vague sort of nod and hums:

“See you later then.”

Fauntleroy holds still on the pavement in front of their door. “ _Sous_ ,” they protest. They have stopped trying to coax parting hugs out of him a long time ago, but they refuse to give up on getting him to actually say goodbye. Especially not after he tried to just disappear like he did.

Claquesous stops and turns to look at them and what little Fauntleroy can see of his expression is once again so earnestly questioning that they smile in spite of themself. They take a step towards him so they can actually look at him.

“Bonne nuit, Sous,” they say gently, but with enough smiling emphasis to make him understand that that’s all they wanted. Just a proper goodbye.

Claquesous looks at them quietly for a moment. “Bonne nuit, Faun,” he says in return and suddenly, effectively freezing Fauntleroy to their spot with surprise, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss on their cheek.

The edge of his mask, ending only just above his mouth, is cold against their cheekbone, but his lips are warm against their skin.

Fauntleroy’s breath twists into a startled knot in their chest and they stare up at Claquesous with shocked eyes.

“Better?” he asks and there that strange uncertainty is again.

They try, but not a single word comes to Fauntleroy’s lips. Claquesous has hardly pulled away and he’s standing so incredibly close to them.

Slowly, Claquesous draws himself up to his full height again. “Sometimes…” he says earnestly. “It is very hard to know what you want.”

There is a regretful edge to his voice that makes Fauntleroy’s heart ache suddenly and just before he steps away their hand grabs on to his arm. Claquesous looks down at them in surprise and Fauntleroy starts talking without stopping to think.

“I want—” they begin, looking up with their heart beating high in their chest. “I— …give me another kiss?”

He stares at them.

“Please?” They turn their face just a little to the side and without a word Claquesous complies, slowly leaning forward again and pressing a kiss on their other cheek.

Fauntleroy lets their eyes close for as long as it lasts, but it’s over so soon. When he starts pulling away they hastily lift up their eyes again, their fingers still curled around his arm, just above his wrist, and he stops to look back at them. His expression is absolutely unreadable, even with only the half-mask, but for just a second, his dark eyes dart down to glance at their lips.

With their heart still beating far too loud, but their mind amazingly quiet, Fauntleroy gently closes their other hand around Claquesous’ other wrist and takes a tentative step back. He follows, eyes fixed on their face, and Fauntleroy keeps walking, pulling them both into the shadows of the building’s sheltered entrance. The shadows blend together with Claquesous’ mask and Fauntleroy lets themself lean back against the closed door. There’s no one around to see them here.

They may never get everything they want and the magic of this moment might shatter as soon as they stop holding on to it so tightly. But…if Sous wants to give it to them, they could at least have a kiss.

Fauntleroy lets go of Claquesous’ arms, but he doesn’t pull away. They hear one of his hands press against the heavy door behind them and he’s leaning in so close they can feel his warmth. He’s still looking at them with that unreadable expression and Fauntleroy wants to ask him, but they can’t. Instead, they raise their hand to his face and cup his cheek, touching his warm skin with their palm, but with their fingertips pressed against the cool mask.

For a single heartbeat it feels like Claquesous might turn away from them. Then something shifts deep in his eyes and he leans into them instead.

Fauntleroy’s eyes flutter shut when his lips meet theirs and they feel a strange sort of shaking beneath their ribs that only stops when Claquesous’ hand is suddenly pressing against their waist.

It’s not a shy kiss, not hesitant or clumsy, but it’s soft. Claquesous kisses them like he speaks to them sometimes, with carefully controlled gentleness. It’s pulling the aching out of Fauntleroy’s chest and pushing the faint fog of anxiousness all the way out of their mind. This doesn’t feel like something that will break.

They kiss him back, the hand cupping his cheek sliding down until it rests upon his shoulder. They reach out blindly with their free hand until they feel it closing around the fabric of his coat and they pull on it to bring him closer. Claquesous does move closer, but he also slowly breaks out of the kiss, tilting his head back until Fauntleroy can no longer feel his mouth and opens their eyes to look at him.

A cautious, silent happiness is stirring in their midriff, just above where Claquesous is still holding on to their waist. He kissed them. They didn’t tell him to, they didn’t even ask, but he kissed them all the same and now he’s holding them and looking at them exactly like they’ve been wishing he would.

Claquesous swallows and breathes out a silent breath that moves his lips in a way that makes Fauntleroy nearly desperate to kiss him again. But it looks like he wants to say something, so they don’t, silently looking up at him instead.

“You—” Claquesous begins, softly and surprisingly grave. “—are one of the least selfish people I know.”

Fauntleroy blinks in surprise and lets out a soft, uncertain laugh. “Thank you? I— Was that a compliment?” They smile through their confusion.

Claquesous isn’t smiling though. “It always feels like you do a lot for, or because of other people,” he says seriously.

“Those two aren’t the same at all,” Fauntleroy protests, but they think they know what he means. They used to spend a lot of time doing what they thought they ought to be doing. That is true.

But not anymore, not for a long time. They have dropped their gaze to where their fingers are still curled around the front of Claquesous’ coat, searching for the right way to explain.

“This isn’t…” they struggle slightly. “This isn’t me doing something just because I’ve been told to want it.” They look up into his face. “I don’t know what I want a lot of the time, but I do want this. If you are— I just—” They shut their mouth in frustration. This shouldn’t be so hard. It felt easy only a second ago.

But Claquesous’ expression is nearly smiling now and he’s still leaning against them, still closer than he’s ever been. With not a single sign of wanting to get away.

“Can we not…talk, yet?” Fauntleroy asks, grimacing slightly. “It was easier when you were kissing me.”

Now he actually does smile. Or maybe it’s a bit too slow for a smile. Fauntleroy doesn’t care what it is. It makes them forget to think so hard.

Claquesous brushes a soft kiss against the corner of their mouth and Fauntleroy feels their own lips smile. Their eyes are still open, but they close them when he kisses them again. They kiss back, breathing in slowly. Claquesous smells faintly like smoke and burning and in the back of their mind they wonder what exactly he has been doing today. They’re not too bothered about it though. Claquesous’ lips keep leaving theirs for a second before touching them again and Fauntleroy can’t think very well when they’re waiting to feel him again. The next time they feel him pull back, they gently wind their arms around his neck. Claquesous makes a soft sound they can’t quite place, but they don’t need to, because he kisses them again immediately after.

He presses against them just a little more now and his mask is in the way. Fauntleroy can feel it pushing against their face and whenever it does, Claquesous moves a little gentler. They don’t want him to keep pulling away. They want to kiss him back properly. Maybe tilt their head a little, open their mouth during one of those short moment when it feels like he is about to. Because he hasn’t done that so far, but it feels like he might, and Fauntleroy suddenly really wants him to.

But the mask definitely has to go. Surely he’ll take it off if they ask him to. He usually does what they ask him.

Oh.

Fauntleroy lets their arms slide down a little, loosening their embrace. “Sous?” they breathe, nearly talking against his lips.

He pulls away enough to look at them. By now it’s not just his hand, but also his elbow that’s pressed against the door to steady him. He gives them a questioning look and Fauntleroy swallows.

“…you’re not doing this for me, are you?”

A vague smirk pulls at the corner of Claquesous’ mouth and something jitters in Fauntleroy’s middle in response.

“I was thinking more along the lines of _with,_ not for,” he says, his voice very low, but almost amused.

Fauntleroy looks at the slight quirk of his mouth and they _really_ just want to kiss him again, except—

“Yes,” they mumble, trying to see the exact expression of his eyes through the shadow of his mask. “But…”

“What happened to not talking?” he hums warmly.

Fauntleroy braces themself. They won’t get rid of this thought until they share it. “You can’t be doing this to humour me,” they say, forcing the words past their lips. “…you do a lot of stuff for me you don’t for other people.”

It sounds awful when they say it out loud, but Fauntleroy is sure they have never seen Claquesous’ expression soften so much.

“With you,” he corrects gently. The slight smirk flickers back into his eyes. “And if I had known kissing you was an option, I would have offered that _ages_ ago.”

Fauntleroy feels their face grow hot. They don’t know what to say to that. What can they _possibly_ say to that? Their heart feels like it wants to twist out of place.

Claquesous has slanted his head slightly, studying their face. “I do want to kiss you,” he says. “Even if it’s only once.”

No. Not only once. “I don’t want only once,” Fauntleroy whispers. “I want—” They clear their throat slightly and let their hands slide off Claquesous’ shoulders, trying to pull themself together a bit. “Do you want to come in?” they ask, looking up at him. “Stay the night?”

That faint little smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth again. “Yes,” he says simply.

Fauntleroy feels a burst of joy, followed by a nasty blot of uncertainty. “I don’t…mean…” they begin awkwardly.

“I know what you don’t mean,” Claquesous interrupts softly. “I don’t always know what you do want, but I’m better at what you don’t.”

Fauntleroy blows out a breath. They were right to fall for him. They were. And they wish they had said something sooner.

Slowly they push away from the door and Claquesous draws back to give them more freedom of movement. Fauntleroy is suddenly aware of their heart again, beating just a little louder than usual. They grab their keys and unlock the door, half-heartedly trying to remember when Bizarro and Brujon are likely to come home. They decide they don’t care.

They look back at Claquesous, who is watching and waiting a step away, and he looks far too composed. Still the mask, still the black coat, still the attentive, but controlled posture. They want to see more of the softened edges, more of that look as if he sees only them.

In an impulse Fauntleroy reaches out and takes his hand. The impenetrable expression wavers and Fauntleroy smiles.

They pull Claquesous inside and up the concrete stairs. Neither of them says a word and they’re both walking with soft steps, but they’re not being secretive. This isn’t a secret. It feels like the answer to a secret, Fauntleroy thinks happily. Only secrets don’t have answers, not like riddles do, well it doesn’t matter. They don’t even let go of Claquesous’ hand to unlock the door to their apartment. This is a secret with an answer, and they’ve found it now.

The apartment is reassuringly quiet, but just to be sure Fauntleroy doesn’t let go of Claquesous’ hand until he has closed their bedroom door behind them both. They turn around to look at him, but half-heartedly try to stop him when he reaches for the light switch. It’s too dark right now, but turning on the overhead lights seems…

“No?” Claquesous asks, sounding equal parts uncertain and amused.

“I don’t know,” Fauntleroy grimaces and they let out a frustrated laugh. They’re so happy, but they feel like…well, they’d say like a nervous teenager, except they never did any of this stuff as a teenager.

Sous hums and takes off his coat, reaching in his inside pocket at the same time. As soon as his hand emerges there is the flick of a lighter and he reaches out to light the candles Fauntleroy has spread around their desk.

“How’s that?” he asks, smiling slightly and slipping the lighter back into his pocket before draping his coat over the back of their desk chair.

There’s firelight flickering on his face now and Fauntleroy makes a helpless noise. “Are you just going to give me everything I ask for even when I don’t know what it is?”

“Yes.” It sounds like a promise more than an answer and Fauntleroy forgets to be nervous.

“Can I take off your mask?” they ask.

Instead of answering, Claquesous sits down on the edge of their bed. Fauntleroy shrugs off their coat, letting it slide to the floor, and steps out of their shoes before joining him, sitting up on their knees beside him. He turns his face towards them, bowing his head a little and Fauntleroy remembers how many times they’ve wanted to touch his hair. They untie the strings of his mask and smooth down the few locks of dark hair that have been slightly ruffled. Somehow they forget about the mask and when Claquesous raises his head, he’s holding it himself, putting it aside with a lot more carelessness than Fauntleroy has come to expect from him. They smile at him, brushing his hair away from his forehead, because that’s apparently something they’re allowed to do now.

“I like your face, so much,” they say earnestly and since they are taller than him, sitting up like this, they get to tilt his head back just a little as they place their hands on either side of his face. “So much…”

They press their lips against his. Very softly at first, but then with a little more conviction. Claquesous barely moves. He lets them kiss him and tilts his head back as they slant theirs. Kissing him is different to being kissed _by_ him in a way that Fauntleroy wasn’t quite expecting. They like this. This quiet with firelight and being allowed to see and touch his face. They press against him a little closer and feel one of his arms wrap around their waist. They smile happily against his lips and pull away, rocking to the side for a moment, so they can let their legs dangle sideways off the edge of the bed. Now Sous is taller again and he’s smiling almost just like he did in the booth of the club, when he took off his mask for them.

“At the club,” Fauntleroy murmurs. “With Jehan and Parnasse. That’s when I first wanted to kiss you. I thought about it. I wanted to so badly.”

He looks at them with mild amazement. “You did?”

They nod. Their face is glowing with the confession, but not in an embarrassing way this time. They remember the way Claquesous looked at them then and smile coyly at him. “Did you?”

“Did I want to kiss you then?” he asks. “No…not that time.”

The fact that he’s honest about even that is making Fauntleroy confusedly happy, but they’re also not letting him go that easily. “Other times?” they coax.

Both Claquesous’ hands are on their waist now. “So many other times,” he says and there’s something just a little dark about his voice that Fauntleroy can feel sliding down their back.

“What did you want then?” they press softly. Because come to think of it, he hasn’t exactly said. Not really.

Fauntleroy understands what he’s not quite saying. What he’s not saying is that he wants what _they_ want, and the sweetness of it is absolutely dancing in their mind, but it’s not quite fair. Not quite equal.

“Lots of things,” he says vaguely and Fauntleroy is about to protest, when Claquesous’ right hand suddenly comes up to cup their face and he mutters: “Different things on different days…”

Before they can respond, his mouth is on theirs and this time he kisses them hard enough to make Fauntleroy’s mind grind to a halt entirely. They open their mouth just enough to take in a breath and let him kiss them again, never closing their lips. Claquesous deepens the kiss just a little, just enough for them to taste him and to make odd swirls of warmth fan out through their entire body. Fauntleroy leans into the hands at their waist and neck and Claquesous softly lowers them down until they feel the matrass carry them. Claquesous’ fingers tangle into their hair and for a moment he kisses them even deeper, before pulling away with a nearly regretful intake of breath.

Fauntleroy opens their eyes to see him leaning over them. Their entire body is flooded with a new kind of fuzzy-edged warmth that they might well become addicted to and they blink up at him dazedly. Claquesous looks happy and it’s definitely a different kind of happiness than they’re used to seeing in him. Sinking further into that intoxicating fuzzy warmth they wonder if they could keep this kind of happiness all to themself. That’s selfish, isn’t it. But they feel like being selfish. Terribly selfish and terribly generous all at once.

At the very edge of the happiness on Claquesous’ face there’s just a hint of searching uncertainty. Fauntleroy  knows they probably can’t do away with that all at once, but they can try.

They let out a sigh that comes out exactly as appreciative as they meant it. They’re not afraid anymore that Claquesous will ask them for things they might not want to give and they want him to be sure that absolutely  none of this is in _any_ way unwelcome. Fauntleroy wraps their arms loosely around his waist, their hands resting on the small of his back.

“Was that every day combined?” they ask, giving in to the smile pulling at their lips. “Or just one of them?”

And with just a hint of that amused narrowing of his eyes they’ve grown to love so much, Claquesous actually laughs out loud, before shutting both their mouths with a kiss again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *exhales*


	19. Morning

Fauntleroy doesn’t remember right away when they wake, it takes them a moment.

When they do remember the whole of last night, it is immediately painfully obvious that they are tucked into their duvet on their own. They roll over and open their eyes.

The smile that jumps to their lips warms them both inside and out.

Claquesous is leaning against the headboard, all the way to one side of the bed. He’s maskless, his long hair messy and sleep-tousled, and Fauntleroy has never seen him look so…dressed down. Sous is not dressy like Montparnasse, but he is always very put together. Right now he looks nearly the complete opposite. They’ve never seen him barefoot, for a start.

He’s still in his T-shirt from last night, but he’s wearing some pyjama bottoms he took out of the pile of clean laundry that Fauntleroy thinks belong to Brujon. And he’s reading a paperback that looks awfully familiar.

“Did you raid my bookcase?” they mutter affectionately.

Claquesous glances down at them, one corner of his mouth moving into a slight smile. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Fauntleroy wonders how long he’s been awake himself. It’s a usual joke among the Patron-Minette that Claquesous never sleeps. They let themself roll onto their stomach, getting to lie a little closer to him and making it very clear they don’t intend to go anywhere any time soon.

For a moment the near-smile grows a little wider and then Claquesous quietly looks back at his book.

Fauntleroy watches him read for a moment, trying to remember another time they’ve seen him this unguarded. They don’t think they have. Not while he was sober anyway. They want to quietly watch him forever. But they also really want attention.

“Are you enjoying my vampires?” they ask, grinning half into their pillow. They’ve heard Sous speak rather disparagingly of modern fantasy several times.

He hums vaguely, turning a page before dropping his hand on his thigh again.

“Let me guess,” they tease. “You like the bloody parts.”

He smirks, dark eyes darting to their face for a moment. “I’ll give you my review at the end,” he says and he goes back to reading.

Despite everything. Despite the grin on their lips and the fuzzy happiness lingering all around them, Fauntleroy feels a single touch of uncertainty pressing down on the back of their mind. Claquesous is right here. He stayed up with them half the night, talking in between kisses. He slept beside them in their bed. He didn’t even leave after waking up what must be hours before they did, judging from how much he has read already.

They shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Last night he had pretty much said that they could have whatever they wanted, as long as they asked for it. He wants to be with them, but they need to tell him how.

That really shouldn’t be so hard.

Fauntleroy takes in a small, steadying breath. “Sous, could I borrow your hand for a bit?”

Claquesous looks at them again and silently holds out the hand that isn’t holding his book for them to take. Fauntleroy takes it, reaching up without otherwise changing their position, and places his hand on the back of their neck. Asking doesn’t always have to be with words.

For a moment Claquesous does not move at all, keeping his hand still even when Fauntleroy has removed their own, but then he very carefully scratches at the nape of their neck.

Fauntleroy did mean to make a pleased noise in response, to show him this is exactly what they wanted, they did _not_ mean for it to sound quite so much like purring.

Claquesous snorts softly, but it’s a kind, amused sound. His eyes flit back to his page again, but his fingers scratch softly upwards from Fauntleroy’s neck to the back of their head, where he absent-mindedly ruffles and smooths their hair by turns. _Exactly_ what they wanted.

Fauntleroy lets their eyes close, silently enjoying themself. They know that insecurity will come back, feelings like that aren’t beaten so easily, but this is more than enough to chase it away for now. When they peer through their lashes at Claquesous he looks wonderfully content.

They have nearly drifted back off to sleep, when his hand slides a little further down and his fingers begin raking gently up and down their back. Vague feelings of recognition call Fauntleroy back awake and they smile drowsily at the memory. There are no discernible shapes in Claquesous’ stroking now. No squares or triangles. Only swirling patterns that are interrupted briefly whenever he needs to turn a page. Maybe, Fauntleroy thinks vaguely, feeling the warmth of his hand through the fabric of their shirt, maybe they began to fall in love with him as long ago as that.

That thought makes them lie very still for a second, but startling as it is, Fauntleroy is too comfortable to let it shake them. Instead they turn it over in their mind a couple times, smiling into their pillow when Claquesous hand slides into their hair again. For someone who doesn’t touch people much he sure is good at it.

Suddenly, loud and disagreeable, there is a burst of approaching noise out in the hallway. It’s the unmistakable sound of Brujon arriving home, but Fauntleroy does not realise the racket is actually coming closer until it’s already too late.

“Faun, weren’t you going to ma—” Brujon freezes on the doorstep, eyes shocked and wide as he stares at Claquesous.

Claquesous looks back at him silently, not offering a single explanation, and Fauntleroy can just see the edge of his slightly annoyed expression. They’re none too pleased about the disturbance themself either.

They raise their head just enough to meet Brujon’s eyes. He is gaping slightly and, astonishingly, still here.

“Brujon,” Fauntleroy says slowly and he blinks.

Their roommate seems to genuinely need a moment to remember how to speak. “…yes?” he says eventually.

“Go. Away,” Fauntleroy says with emphasis.

Brujon has never complied with an order to get out of their room faster. He practically trips over the threshold, backing hastily out of the room. He doesn’t even slam the door when he pulls it shut.

“Well,” Claquesous hums, turning back to his book. “That was entertaining.”

“Hm,” Fauntleroy breathes amusedly, letting their head fall back onto the pillow and making a gratified sound when Claquesous resumes the gentle head scratches. It also means that as soon as Brujon recovers enough to remember how to text, absolutely everybody will know. They’re not sure if that’s going to be an advantage or an annoyance. They also decide not to mention it to Claquesous. Just in case he hadn’t drawn the conclusion yet himself and feels inclined to go take Brujon’s phone off him. Because that would mean no more fingers tangled in their hair. And as far as Fauntleroy is concerned the two of them could stay here like this for ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I would like to remind my dear readers that this is the first time poor Brujon has seen Claquesous face.)
> 
> I hereby consider this slow burn ignited! Thank you all dearly for your patience <3
> 
> I must admit I had never expected so many people to be interested in this. So if you have the time, _please_ let me know: did I convince you? Does this ship have new crew?
> 
> Either way, you've been lovely coming along for the ride and who knows, maybe these two will be back some day~


End file.
